Where Wildflowers Grow
by KuroRiya
Summary: Everyone knows better than to associate with the Pagan family near the edge of town. Especially Jean. Yet he can't seem to keep his eyes from wandering that way. Jean is raised Christain, while Marco's family is Pagan, set roughly in the 1700s. It's a dismal situation, one that begs the ultimate question: Can they somehow make it, despite the hardships? Minor mentions of EruRi.
1. Tiger Lilies

Jean knew plenty about the Bodt family. They lived on the furthest plot of land from the rest of the town. They let wildflowers grow on their vast lawn. They had several children, some old enough to have their own families, some young enough to be learning English still. They kept sheep and a few chickens, and two cows. They rarely sold anything to anyone, only making enough to keep themselves fed and clothed.

But the most important thing Jean knew about the Bodts was that he should avoid them whenever possible. They weren't god-fearing Christians like the rest of the town. No, they were pagan, and openly so. As if they were proud! That was a dangerous thing to be in that time and place. When Jean had first heard the word, slurred as if it were a curse, directed at the family, he'd immediately made the decision to have nothing to do with them. That wasn't something he wanted to be associated with.

And yet, he found himself glancing at their property curiously every time he passed it. What he was looking for, not even he knew. Perhaps he wanted to see what it was that made these people so different from his family, from all the other families in the area. The Bodt home looked normal enough. It was two stories, which was strange for the town. Most of them weren't wealthy enough to have two stories. But they did have many children, and therefore more need for space.

They'd built onto the house as the years passed, and Jean could clearly distinguish between what was new and what was old. But it was a nice enough house, kept in good repair. They had about as much land to their names as Jean's own family did, though they didn't keep much of a farm; just one small plot, enough to grow what they needed to feed themselves. The rest grew wild, dotted in the spring and summer with various flowers. That was normal enough though. Plenty of people didn't bother trying to tame their land beyond the farm space.

There weren't any sacrificed animals anywhere, or devil altars, or even freaky candles in the windows. No pentagrams as decoration, or random blood. It was just a normal, slightly mismatched house with a low fence and weathered wood, bleating sheep chewing absently at long grass. And that was confusing to Jean, it was overwhelming even. How could this family's property look so completely normal, so average, yet contain something so strange?

And so, he found himself staring, eyes tracing over every inch of the home, over every flower, every sheep. What was he looking for? He still couldn't decide. It was so compelling a question that he sometimes found himself stopped in front of the house, just watching everything that happened within the fence. He'd catch himself, quickly jogging home, avoiding the eyes of anyone nearby lest they question him about it.

This continued for months. He'd just look as he passed. He didn't join the townspeople in their jeering catcalls as they walked home from church. The Bodt land was, ironically, very near to the town's religious sanctuary. It was a bad place for them, as, when church let out, everyone had to pass the pagan land. And they made sure the family knew how bad that was. He wondered how they felt about having to clean up all of the things thrown past their fence, wondered if they heard the swear words, and, if so, how they felt about them. But he knew better than to ask anyone, especially one of the Bodts.

And then, one day, as he was staring, as he found himself doing more and more, he was startled by a voice. It was low and sweet; thick, like honey. And it drew him in, enough so that he was uncomfortable. But he followed the sound, finding a freckled face, earthy eyes staring back at him. And he backed up, fear rising in his stomach. He'd been caught, and by one of the Bodts no less. He knew. That dark skin and those freckles were characteristic of the family.

The boy seemed a bit surprised by his sudden retreat to the other side of the street, but it melted to something akin to amusement.

"Do you need something?" He called, loud enough for Jean to hear across the street. He never received a response, Jean having quickly taken his leave, heading for home, trying to convince himself that he hadn't just been spoken to by one of the Bodts. What if someone saw? Would they think he was friendly with them? He most certainly was not!

No one said anything about it in the days to come, so he surmised that he was likely safe. And so he let himself think about the encounter at last. The boy's face was a little foggy in his mind. He hadn't looked at him long. He remembered the smooth, freckled skin, the color of a dark rum. But his features were fuzzy. He remembered the round, droopy eyes, rimmed with a thick layer of long, dark lashes, and the way the brown shone with flecks of amber when he'd been close enough to see. But that was all he had really seen before he'd run away.

And now, even more so than before, he was curious. Who was the boy, who seemed about his age, and what did he think about? But it was too dangerous to speak with him, or even ask about him. No, Jean couldn't take that kind of risk. He had his family's reputation to think of. As one of the more influential families in town, he knew better than to be caught with the Pagan boy.

To chase away the thoughts, he began spending more time at the Jaeger residence. While Eren annoyed him to no end, he had long fancied Mikasa Ackerman, who also lived in the home. So he put up with the Jaeger boy to give his best attempt at wooing the girl. And she seemed to be responding well, in his opinion. Better than the first time he'd spoken to her, anyway.

He decided, on one of the days he was planning on visiting Mikasa, to pick her some flowers. Girls liked things like that, after all. So before he headed for the Jaeger property, he walked towards the outskirts of town. There were plenty of fields where wildflowers grew, and he was sure he'd find a decent array. Not that he was looking for anything in particular, but he figured, if he got a bunch of different kinds, he'd be bound to find something she liked.

And he did just that, walking back into town with a fistful of brightly colored flowers that he didn't know the names of. He was just passing the Bodt property when his eyes fell on the same boy that had spoken to him across the fence last time, and he tensed. He knew he should hurry, before the boy could spot him. And yet, he was frozen in place, watching him pick up a lamb and carry it to its mother, who was bleating in distress. He laughed when she immediately quieted, and the sound carried all the way over to Jean's stiff position on the other side of the fence.

Seeming to suddenly realize the existence of another human, the boy turned, meeting eyes with Jean, and he began walking over. Jean wanted to go, just as quickly as he had last time, but something compelled him to stay. And, before he could even realize he was still standing, rooted to the spot, the boy was upon him.

"Hello." He said, voice still thick and sweet like honey, but more cautious, quiet this time. It was as if he was trying to avoid scaring Jean away. He nearly did.

It took a long time for Jean to work up the nerve to reply. But he did.

"Hi." He offered. It wasn't much, but it was something. It was, apparently, plenty, because the boy's face broke into a pleased grin.

"I'm glad you're talking to me this time. My name is Marco." He offered. His hand didn't come out for a shake, as if he already knew that Jean wouldn't take it. "And you're Jean. Pretty much everyone in town knows your family." He added. "Everyone knows mine too, but not for the same reason. There are a lot of us, though, so you probably haven't heard my name."

And Jean hadn't. He didn't know any of them by name, actually. Just that title, Bodt. It was almost like a condemnation.

"Are you taking those to Mikasa?" He wondered. Jean flinched, looking up at him with surprise. How did he know that? Sure, it was common knowledge that Jean was pursuing the girl, but nobody talked to the Bodts. Where had he gotten that information? But how could he ask that? No, that wouldn't do. He simply settled for nodding, not trusting his voice not to betray his disbelief.

"Well, I suggest you start over. She won't like those." He said, as if it should be obvious.

"What?" Jean demanded, voice harsher than was probably necessary. But honestly, what right did this boy have to belittle him like that? He'd worked hard to pick the flowers. And how could he presume to know what Mikasa would and wouldn't like?

"Mikasa is a mature girl, at least in sensibilities. A random bunch of flowers wouldn't suit her personality. You should pick one type of flower for the main body, and then accent it with one other." He explained, bending down. "I suggest these." He added, holding up an orange colored flower, spotted with red along the petals.

"They're commonly called tiger lilies. And you could use those white one's you've already got to accent."

Jean, though wary, took the words for what they were. By the way he spoke, Marco obviously knew more about flowers than Jean did. And his assessment of Mikasa's personality had been accurate enough. And, honestly, what could listening to him hurt? She'd be getting flowers either way. And he'd rather not get on this boy's bad side. Who knew what might happen if he did.

"Alright," he agreed, and Marco smiled at him again, his thick lips capturing Jean's attention. He took a moment to look at the boy's face, recalling his fuzzy remembrance from before. His lips were full and looked smooth, just a little chapped. And his nose was long, barely upturned at the end. It was a handsome face, and Jean thought it too bad that, most likely, the boy would never find a wife. Not in this town, anyway.

"Here, you can come pick some. We have them all over." Marco offered, gesturing for Jean to hop over the low fence.

It was a terrifying idea to the teen. He got the feeling that, if he did, he'd somehow be committing to something he wasn't sure he wanted to commit to. What though? To Marco, to paganism, to sin? Surely just stepping on the property wouldn't mean anything. He was only picking some flowers. There weren't tiger lilies anywhere else he could think of, so it wasn't as if he could go to some other field instead. And Marco had made no moves to try and convert him to the devil's religion, so he had no reason to fear the boy. In fact, he'd been nothing but friendly.

He made his choice, dropping the flowers he'd already gathered and hopping over, planting his feet firmly on the ground. It still felt strange to him, foreboding even. This land was so forbidden, so feared by the townspeople. Yet, there he stood, perfectly intact and still just as Christian as when he'd woken up that morning. And Marco looked just as pleasant as he had from the other side.

The boy beckoned, wanting Jean to follow him, and he did, walking to a patch of the yard where the lilies grew thickly. They were vibrant against the green of the grass, and Jean knelt, looking them over.

"Pick as many as you like." Marco said quietly, laying down in the grass while Jean got to work. He didn't try to make conversation, only laid there, staring up at the sky. Jean tried not to pay him any mind, picking a decent bouquet before he stood.

"I'm done." He offered, and Marco got back up, nodding, leading him back towards the fence. Jean jumped over quickly, feeling a strange anticipation building up inside. He just got the feeling that something bad would happen if he stayed any longer. But, of course, Marco called out to him.

"Wait!" He shouted, and Jean turned around, looking at him. Again, Marco smiled, waving him back over. "You forgot the baby's breath." He said simply, picking up the discarded bunch of flowers, fishing the white ones out. Then he reached for the ones in Jean's hand, and they were nearly dropped in Jean's haste to let it go. Marco didn't mention it though, interspersing the small flowers between the lilies before handing it back.

"Thanks." Jean offered, already backing up again.

"I'm not catching, I promise." Marco replied. It was as if he knew. But it wasn't spoken with anger or hurt. It was just a statement. Jean made sure he was gone before Marco could demand a response.

He walked straight to the Jaeger home, knocking frantically, as if he were being tailed. But, looking back, there was no sign of the Bodt boy. Still, he was relieved when the door opened, even when it was Eren on the other side, looking at him curiously and maybe with a hint of annoyance. But, after seeing the flowers, he called for Mikasa.

The girl came down the stairs, looking as neutral as always. She came to the door and gave Jean that unimpressed look, eyes glancing to the arm he had behind his back, hiding the flowers. Without much finesse, he thrust the arm forward, and she looked at the flowers with the smallest amount of surprise. And then, to his amazement, her lips pulled into a small smile, and she took them.

"Tiger lilies… My favorite. How did you know?" She wondered, heading back towards the kitchen. Jean followed, at a loss for words as she pulled out a vase.

"I… I don't know, just a feeling." He offered. Mikasa nodded, filling the vase with water and pushing the stems in.

"They're beautiful. Where did you find them?" She inquired, and he tensed yet again.

"O-Oh, um… Just one of the fields outside of town." He replied.

"I'll have to look again. Most years I can only find them on the Bodt property. They don't mind if I pick some though." She said, and Jean's eyes widened.

"You've been on their land?" He demanded. She turned to face him, though he couldn't read her expression.

"I usually pick the ones close to the fence, but yes, I've been inside. Marco, one of the older boys, invites me in whenever he sees me looking at the flowers. He's very nice." She explained. Jean, despite having just done the same himself, wore a face of horror. Mikasa rolled her eyes. "I do not see the point in fearing a family that has done no one any harm. I understand that they don't have the same beliefs as everyone else, but they keep to themselves, and don't bother anyone. They've never been anything but polite to me." She supplied. And Jean couldn't dispute it.

No matter how much people said about their devil worshipping and their animal sacrifices, there was never once a story about them bringing harm to anyone. No one had a horror story of crossing a Bodt's path, of being attacked. No one could say that they'd been coerced into devil worship themselves. In fact, the vast majority of the town couldn't even say that they'd spoken to any of the Bodts.

And, from his brief encounter just before coming to visit Mikasa, Jean could honestly say that Marco Bodt had been one of the nicest people he'd spoken to, even if only for a moment. Most people bothered him with formalities, forced their expectations of his social standing on his every word. He always felt stiff and removed when he spoke to most people. But Marco had given off a feeling of acceptance, of comfort. No matter what Jean had said, the boy would likely have taken it in stride. And that was a foreign concept to him.

He talked with Mikasa for a bit, then excused himself and headed home. Thoughts of the Bodt boy followed him. For someone who never spoke to anyone, Marco was very observant. He'd remembered that Mikasa liked tiger lilies. He knew who Jean was. He knew that Jean was trying to woo the girl. How had he gotten that information? Before that first time a few weeks ago, Jean had never even seen Marco.

He tried to put it from his mind as he entered his home, as if his father would be able to tell just by looking at him that he was thinking about the freckled boy. Maybe he would be able to. And that was a scary enough prospect to have Jean trying to chase away thoughts of whiskey colored skin and sweet chocolate eyes.

But the words stuck.

_I'm not catching, I promise._

A/N: I've been dying to start posting this story, to be honest. It's a little tough to write, and I've had it looked over by several people already in a bid to improve it in any way I can. And, well, I've finally decided that it's time to get started.

As is probably obvious from this first chapter, this story is going to be a little less lighthearted than my other JeanMarco story. It's going to have more of a serious, heavier atmosphere. While there are some moments of peace and happiness, the general tone is supposed to be sort of subdued.

I'd also like to say; I have no real religious opinion. I am not Pagan, nor am I Christian. I don't particularly like or dislike either religion either. I understand that religion can be a really touchy subject as far as writing and fanworks are concerned, so I want to make it perfectly clear that what you read in this story is not necessarily what I think or feel. Take it for the artistic value, if you can? I do take some liberties, but I've got someone from both religions checking me for any huge mistakes.

That said, religion will play a pretty important part in the story. Not so much for plot advancement. At no point will I be preaching or trying to convert anyone. I don't put either religion in a perfect light. The religion is mainly used to fuel the way that the characters think and feel. For example, Jean's fear stems from his religion. It's things like that.

I make it sound scarier the longer I talk about it, hmm? Well, I promise, this is still a story about Jean and Marco, and how they fall in love. The religion is just sort of a spice added to make it interesting, I suppose. I'll have the next chapter up soon, and I'm going to go ahead and stop here before I say anything else that might scare readers away.

Thank you to anyone who took the time to check it out, and if you have time, feedback is appreciated! I hope to see some of you come back for the next chapter!

Till then,  
KuroRiya

九六りや


	2. Anemone

He'd vowed not to go there again. After he spent an entire week trying not to think about the Bodt boy and failing miserably, he decided it was dangerous territory. So, of course, that made it near impossible. He never realized how frequently he passed the property. More than once a day he'd notice, with a start, that he was passing by the low fence that he'd jumped over just a few days ago. And not only that, he started noticing that Marco wasn't as scarce as he'd initially thought.

As he would pass, his eyes would find the figure, almost always. He'd be tending the sheep, or chasing chickens, or playing with the dogs, or watering crops. How had he never noticed the boy before? And the other Bodt children would be out on occasion, doing work of their own. It was so strange; Jean had never seen any of them before, yet there they all were. Had he simply not been paying attention before, or were they coming out for him? But no, none of them paid him any mind.

Except Marco. Somehow, the boy always seemed to know when Jean was passing. He'd look up from whatever he was doing and catch Jean's eyes with his. But he didn't approach, didn't call out. He'd return to whatever he was doing and let Jean pass without a fuss.

Jean felt like Marco knew something he didn't, and that was not a feeling he liked to have. But it seemed like he was waiting for something. But what? What could he want from Jean? There was an eerie sense of attraction looming over Jean. He wanted to talk to him, wanted to learn about him and his family. Maybe it was that nagging curiosity of his that had already proven dangerous. But he couldn't help it. It was making him mad, this need to learn, to question.

And so, finally, he worked up the courage to call out to the other boy. None of the other siblings were out, so it was only Marco that came when Jean shouted. But, now that he was before him, what was it he wanted to say? He hadn't thought of it before calling the boy over.

"Hello, Jean." Marco said politely. Jean nodded, taking in the boy's appearance. He was sweaty from a day's work, but he didn't smell badly, and the dirt on his clothing was somehow excusable. It suited him, in a strange way.

"Hi." He replied. Marco smiled.

"Would you like to help me for a bit? I need to herd the sheep back up this way." He offered. And what possessed him to nod, he'd never know, but nod Jean did, taking that little leap over the fence and following Marco to the back of the property, past what he could have seen from the street. And they kept walking until a field came into view. This was where the sheep were, grazing lazily. They looked up when they heard the boys approaching though.

They looked like they were about to start stampeding away in fear, but they calmed when they recognized Marco, and went back to grazing. One of the dogs, a big, fuzzy white one, came lumbering up to Marco's side. The boy grinned, bending down to scratch it behind the ears.

"Hey girl, you did a good job today, right?" He inquired, and the dog yipped playfully, backing off, then rounding around them. She nudged into Marco, sending him lurching forward, and he laughed. "Alright, alright, get to work, I know."

And he did, whistling for the other dogs. These ones were herders, Jean knew that much. Most of them were collies, and they came running at Marco's call. They lined up before him, and he gave them their orders.

"Cast!" He called, and the dogs got to work immediately, rounding the sheep up into a tight group. Marco nodded his head towards the house, and the dogs started leading them in the correct direction. Marco himself waited till all of them had passed before he started walking, Jean on his heels.

"They're well trained." Jean mumbled, not wanting to seem rude by not offering any conversation. Marco nodded, smiling after them.

"All of us have trained one." He began. "The white one from earlier is mine. I didn't want to train one of the herders, so they got me that fluffy monstrosity. I trained her as a Livestock Guardian. She's saved quite a few sheep from the coyotes. Loves them like they were hers." He said, stooping down to pick up a lamb that had fallen behind. "This one's new." He offered, bouncing it once in his arms, earning a bit of bleating. "Hasn't found her legs just yet." He laughed.

Jean finally smiled, unable to deny that the lamb was cute.

"Does she fall behind a lot?" He wondered.

"Yep," Marco replied, nodding. "But so did her mother. She'll figure it out sooner or later." He offered. "They all do. It just takes some longer than others."

Jean nodded. He'd never need to know that. He didn't raise sheep, nor would he ever, most likely. But for some reason he felt like Marco's words should mean something to him. Well, at least he was talking, and it felt a lot less terrifying when they could converse like this, like normal people.

"You're on your way home, right?" Marco asked. Again, Jean nodded. "You usually pass by around this time. What are you doing during the day?"

"I'm apprenticing with the local journalist. So I go around and talk to people, to see if I can find anything interesting going on. My father's pissed, wanted me to be the tax collector like him, and still thinks he's going to coerce me into it, somehow. I like writing, though." He offered. Marco smiled, nodding.

"That sounds like a fun job. But is there much interesting going on here?" He wondered. Jean laughed bitterly.

"Almost never. We had to put out a piece last week about some kids that fell into the river. One of them broke his leg. That's the most exciting thing we've had happen in a while, actually. We fill the majority of the space with news from the bigger cities closer to the coast." He explained. Marco frowned.

"Was he okay?" He inquired. Jean was surprised. Most people didn't care about that sort of thing.

"Oh, uh, yes. He's already up and around again. Jaeger got him patched up with a splint and some crutches." He assured, and Marco's face returned to calm.

"That's good. Broken legs can be really bad." He pointed out. "I broke mine when I was younger, and I nearly died. We couldn't afford the doctor, and I got really sick, and they just barely pulled me out of it. I'm pretty lucky, actually." He admitted. And it was then that Jean noticed that, indeed, Marco walked favoring his right side. It was so miniscule that he hadn't even noticed it before.

"I've never broken anything." He replied. No, he'd been too well taken care of.

"You're even more lucky, then. It hurts something awful, believe me. My sister, Mona, recently broke her arm, and I had to take care of her. She cried night and day. She's doing better now." He supplied, smiling. "Even went out to play with the dogs earlier. She won't be able to use it for a while yet, though." He added. Jean nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"I don't work like you do." He pointed out, nodding towards the lamb in the boy's arms. Marco nodded.

"No, you don't. But your work is hard too, especially in a little town like this." He offered. They were approaching the house now, and he put the lamb down, the little creature clumsily finding its footing before clamoring off to find its mother. The dogs led the sheep into a smaller area, and Marco called them all out before closing the gate, leaving only the sheep. There was still plenty of room, but less grass, so many of the sheep got comfortable, clearly planning on taking a nap.

"I'm done for the day." Marco announced, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back. "And it's about time for dinner. You're welcome to join us, if you want, but I'm guessing you don't." He said, and Jean froze, looking up at the boy. The offer scared him. It scared him because he had half a mind to accept it. He quickly shook his head.

"No, thanks. I should get home." He replied, too quickly, heading towards the fence. Marco nodded as he went.

"Alright. I'll see you again." He called. And that scared Jean too. Because, the way Marco said it, it didn't sound like a casual farewell. It sounded like a premonition, like it was definitely going to happen. Like he already knew that it was going to happen. Jean offered nothing in response, retreating quickly, not turning to look back until he was well out of sight.

All he could see was the back of the house; a few of windows already alight with candles, chasing away the oncoming evening darkness. He wondered about the family inside, imagined them all gathering around the table. All twenty of them. That was an exaggeration, probably. He'd have to ask Marco how many siblings he actually had.

And there it was, that fear again. He was planning on seeing Marco again, without even realizing. It seemed so obvious that they would encounter one another; he hadn't even given it a second thought. But he was now, stumbling home and offering some half-witted excuse for why he was so late getting back. It worked though, and he was able to sit to dinner and go to bed without incident. Yet his mind was full of tan skin and lambs, of tiger lilies, collies, and freckles. And he couldn't stop the thoughts even if he tried. And he was scared.

Not scared enough not to go back the next day before meeting with the journalist, helping Marco collect the eggs from the hens before he left for work. That really only meant that he took the basket that Marco was carrying and held it out for the other boy while he worked. Jean had never worked with hens before.

"Aren't you scared of them?" He asked dumbly, looking at the creatures in question. They'd always made him uncomfortable. Marco only chuckled.

"No. I raised most of them from chicks, so I'm used to them." He replied. Jean winced as one walked past him.

"But their eyes… And the way they walk… They're creepy." He decided. Again, Marco laughed.

"I'm sure you like eggs though." He pointed out, and Jean couldn't help but nod, thinking of the scrambled eggs he'd had for breakfast. "And I bet you like chicken too." He added. Jean shuddered, the thought of eating one of the birds rather horrific to him. He much preferred them already plucked and beheaded. But chicken was one of his favorite meals.

"I'd rather not think about it." He mumbled, and Marco smiled, dropping the topic.

"You're up pretty early for someone who isn't a farmer." He pointed out, and Jean groaned.

"I know." He agreed, voice exasperated. "Levi insists on getting up before the sun."

"Ah, I know Levi. He's not so bad." Marco offered. Jean sputtered.

"You know Levi?" He demanded, and Marco nodded curiously.

"Sure. He's come around to ask us questions a few times. People are pretty wary of us, and when they start getting a little too wary, he comes and asks us about whatever the issue is, and he'll publish it to calm people down." He explained. And Jean kind of remembered a few articles like that. He'd just assumed that Levi made them up. Apparently not everyone was as scared of the Bodts as he'd thought.

"We tend to be at the center of most people's issues, whether we're actually involved in them or not." He added, shrugging. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you, but a lot of people are scared of us." He said, turning to look at Jean. "You're scared of us."

And Jean couldn't deny it. For, even as he stood holding a basket full of eggs for him, he was terrified to be standing next to this boy. He was scared to touch him, to talk to him, to even acknowledge his existence. No. He wouldn't deny it.

"But that's alright. We're used to it." He assured, turning back around. "We're not bad though, Jean. We're not here to eat your children or convert you to the religion of the devil." He promised.

Jean was surprised yet again. Could Marco read his thoughts? It was starting to seem that way, the more he was around him.

"You're not?" He asked without thinking. He immediately regretted it, realizing how stupid the question sounded. Of course they weren't.

"No, we're not. We don't worship Satan. We don't even believe in him." Marco replied, slapping his hands against his pants in a bid to clean them off. Jean was, truly, confused.

"You don't…" He started, but Marco cut him off.

"No. Nor do we worship God as you do. While we believe that he exists, we see him in several forms. Simply put, our way of thinking is that there is no way that one god could handle the needs of every person, every creature on this earth. We prefer to believe that there are many entities that make up your concept of God. I'm sure you know of a similar concept, you go to church every Sunday." He pointed out.

"You have the holy trinity, the father, son, and holy spirit. It's something like that, but we divide it further. We believe there is a different deity for most things, and not all of them are male. It doesn't make sense for there to only be a male God; there would be no balance. No, there is a god of war, a goddess of harvest, a goddess of love, a god of water. We use the classic names for them, like the Romans. But other families use different names. The idea is the same though." He tried to explain.

"It makes it much easier for us to worship. We have a specific god to speak to in different situations. If we are having a bad harvest, then we pray to the god of the harvest. If we want to find love, we pray to the goddess of love. Just as you would pray to God if you needed to find water, we would pray to Neptune. It's a different name, but is it really that different?" He wondered, looking at Jean, who was still holding the basket. The one in question couldn't think of a way to reply, so he simply refused eye contact. Eventually though, he did speak.

"It's blasphemy not to say so." He pointed out, still not looking at the boy. But he could feel the disappointed gaze. "There can only be one God." He said, the words feeling mechanical to him. He believed them, of course, but he wished he could say them with more conviction, like anyone else in town would have. Marco frowned, sighing.

"It's fine that you believe that. You're obviously not the only one." He replied, voice still level. "But that's not how I think." He offered simply.

"You're wrong." Jean announced, frowning deeply, just like his pastor did when he spoke of the godless Pagans. Marco turned to him, sharply.

"Jean, I'm respecting your religion, please do the same for mine." He plead. But, to Jean, it sounded more like a demand.

"But it's wrong." He said, stubbornness and years of church not allowing him to back down. Marco's brows furrowed, and Jean could see anger flash across his features for a second, but it was quickly replaced with practiced, forced calm.

"I understand that you think so. I'm not asking you to agree with my beliefs, I'm just asking you to accept that they are mine, and mean the same to me as yours do to you." He explained, and Jean withered underneath the steady gaze. "If I were to tell you that your religion was wrong, how would you feel? Is it fair of you to say that to me?" He demanded. Jean winced, shaking his head, guilt flooding his mind. He hadn't thought before he'd spoken, he'd simply repeated what he'd been told his whole life. It was so much easier to do than trying to comprehend the things that Marco was speaking of. But, truly, couldn't he just ignore the fact that the boy worshipped differently? Surely it wasn't so important a part of Marco's life that they couldn't be around each other at all. It was quiet, awkward. But, finally, Marco sighed.

"Anyway, I'm not trying to convert you or anything. I just thought you might like to know a little more about us. We're not as terrible as you're probably thinking." Marco finished, taking the basket from Jean's hands. Their fingers brushed, but Jean didn't flinch. Marco wasn't so scary anymore. "You should probably get going, or Levi will be out for your head." He pointed out, and Jean nodded. He needed time to think about all that he'd learned anyway. Marco had taught him a lot, just in the few minutes they'd spent together that morning. He needed to process it all, to understand and develop opinions.

"Yeah. I'll see you." He called, running for the fence and jumping it easy. He turned and waved before he started for Levi's house. Marco waved back. And it didn't scare him. He wanted to see him again.

A/N: I can say with a fair amount of confidence that this is the most religion-heavy chapter in the fic. While their beliefs to play a part throughout the story, they don't really have any in-depth talks about them beyond this. So if the religious talks were what you were worried about in regards to this story, then you can relax; you've already made it past that!

So, to clarify, after discussing with CousinNick about the incredible number of different Pagan branches and beliefs and whatnot, I decided to make Marco's family Romanesque with a bit of Christian undertone. Because of their heritage, which is mostly Italian for this story, and because of where they've lived, that seemed the most appropriate. I owe a lot to CousinNick for helping me with that bit, and educating me about practices and all of that jazz. It was quite an experience!

I'd also like to mention this here: This story has an incredibly slow build. Like, they both have a lot to work through. So, while I do consider it a romantic story, I want to point out that the romance definitely starts out subtle. They won't be doing any boyfriend things for many a chapter. But my hope is that the gradual build will make it more believable, and that it will overall add to the story.

Whatever the case, I hope you enjoyed chapter two, and hopefully you'll come back for chapter three! Thank you for reading, and feedback is always appreciated.


	3. Periwinkle

He came again after Levi told him to go home for the day. It was a bit earlier than the day before, so he had more time to spare. He knew he should be concerned that he fully intended to spend it with Marco, but he wasn't. Because, now that he wasn't scared of the boy anymore, he was left with burning curiosity, inquisitiveness. He wanted to know everything that Marco could tell him. And his father said he would never make a good Journalist. Ha!

As if he'd been waiting for Jean to come, Marco rounded the corner of the house, a watering can in hand. A younger boy followed, holding another can, just like Marco's. When he saw Jean, Marco headed over to the fence, his younger brother hot on his heels.

"Jean." He greeted, smiling. "Hello."

"Hey." Jean returned, awkwardly putting a smile on as well, glancing down to the shorter Bodt that had caught up to his older sibling.

"This is Nardo. Say hello." Marco directed at the younger boy, nudging him.

"H-Hi." The boy offered warily, staring up at Jean with his brown eyes, almost the same shade as Marco's. He didn't have as many freckles though. Marco rolled his eyes, nudging him again.

"You'll have to forgive him. Like the lamb from yesterday, he hasn't quite found his legs." He laughed, mussing the dark hair upon Nardo's hair. "You can go inside now, if you like. It's Arturo's turn to bring the sheep in, so we're done for the day." He offered. The boy quickly retreated, taking Marco's can as he went and putting both of them in a shed before he went inside. Jean watched, intrigued by the boy's introverted nature. It contrasted so starkly with Marco's openness and comfortable air.

"Is he always so shy?" He wondered. Marco smiled grimly.

"With strangers, yes. He knows that we're not exactly the most welcome people in town. It doesn't help that you look so annoyed all the time." He pointed out, grinning. Jean blanched, fumbling for a retort. "You ought to work on that. You'll have nasty wrinkles there if you keep that up." He added, laughing as he pointed to the spot where Jean's brows always furrowed.

"Oh hush." Jean finally managed, trying to cover as much of his red face with his hands as he could. Marco laughed a bit longer, then it died away, and he gestured for Jean to come in. He hopped the fence, without so much as a thought this time. The motion was fluid, natural, as if he'd been doing it his whole life, not just a couple of days.

He followed the brunette to the other side of the house, where he'd emerged from earlier. They passed the field, leaves and vines already poking out, and walked instead to a meadow, all grass and wildflowers. Marco sat down, stretching his arms over his head before falling onto his back, sighing. Jean, a little more hesitant, eventually copied, lying next to the boy and resting the back of his head on his crossed arms.

"Any interesting stories today?" Marco asked, voice a little deeper than usual, since he was lying down. Jean scoffed.

"Not unless you think that Annie Leonhardt beating up Reiner Braun for the umpteenth time is interesting." He replied. While the two were supposed to be friends, along with Bertholdt Fubar, they often ended up at odds, and Annie always got the upper hand, in the end. It was funny the first few times, but it wasn't news-worthy anymore.

"Ah, you'd think he'd learn his lesson." Marco suggested, and Jean nodded.

"Yeah. But it's part of this town, now. They'll probably be telling their grandkids about how famous they were in their day." He guessed. Marco was quiet for a while.

"I… I don't think either of them will ever have grandchildren." He admitted when Jean glanced over at him.

"Huh? What do you mean?" Jean questioned. Marco looked uncomfortable, though his posture remained relaxed.

"It's just a feeling." He replied, lids sliding closed over dark eyes. Jean could tell he didn't want to talk about it, so he let it go, relaxing back into the grass. He was worried about his clothes, doing his best to avoid grass stains. His mother would have his head if he came home looking like he'd romped around in his work clothes. But Marco didn't seem to care in the least about his own clothes. And, Jean supposed, they were already dirty anyway.

Marco was never entirely clean, from what Jean had seen. He was always covered in the thin layer of dust, with a few streaks of dirt across his cheeks or arms. But it didn't bother him. It suited the boy, really. He felt earthy to Jean, like he belonged to nature instead of the confines of society. He seemed so comfortable lying in the grass, surrounded by the green; it was as if he might sink in and become a patch of flowers. Pale, mysterious moon flowers, springing up all in one place, quiet beauty like that of the person who'd become them. Jean thought it would be a lovely sight, but one he'd rarely see.

In fact, he'd only seen them once, with his grandmother before she died. He was too young to remember much of anything about the woman, but he had that one memory. Walking hand in hand with someone he could barely claim to know, kneeling down before a shriveled stalk. He hadn't understood at the time why he'd been brought there. Not until they started blooming. Then he'd been filled with that childish delight, able to appreciate the beauty, the etherealness, through fresh, innocent eyes. Now, as jaded as life had made him, he'd likely miss it. They were just flowers, he reminded himself, not some otherworldly being.

Marco began humming lightly, drawing Jean from his thoughts. He didn't know the tune. Most of the songs he heard were hymns from church. It made sense that he didn't know it. Marco was from another plane of existence. His life didn't revolve around the word of the same God that Jean feared.

It shook him to the core as he thought that. _Feared_. He couldn't say, truthfully, that he loved his God. Was he supposed to? Other people did, and he could tell. The ones that sang the loudest to be heard over even the music, over the choir. The ones that held their hands up, as if the Lord was a tangible substance, something they could touch if they only reached high enough. Maybe they could.

But Jean didn't feel that love. He only felt fear, debilitating fear. There were so many rules, so many expectations, constructs that he had to fall into, lest he be declared a sinner. He envied Marco and his comfortable, easy beliefs. There was a stark difference between them; Marco felt accepted and loved by his gods. He went through life knowing they'd accept him for what he was, unconditionally. And, even if one didn't, another would. At least, that's what it seemed like.

Jean's God was not so forgiving. He was supposed to be, but how could he forgive so much? So many things could damn him for eternity. Repentance couldn't save Jean, not the way he wanted it to. Being around Marco just reminded him how wrathful his Lord truly was. Just being around Marco was a sin. The boy spewed blasphemy as if it were friendly conversation, spoke of gods other than God as if it were possible. Jean cringed, his body beginning to inch away slowly, even without his mind's permission.

He'd sinned, over and over, by coming to see this boy, by speaking to him. And he'd actively sought it. Was it too late, had he gone too far? Would he be extended forgiveness? If he left, right then, and prayed for the rest of his life, and never saw the Pagan boy again, could he be saved?

"You're scared again." Marco breathed, not asking, not belittling. It was just a statement. His eyes were still closed, and he didn't move as Jean sat up, looking down at brandy skin, spotted with freckles, warmed with sun but not flushed. Jean didn't reply, couldn't form the words.

"That's alright." Marco said, his eyes opening and his hands coming to rest against his stomach. "Everyone's scared."

Jean swallowed, watching big hands rise and fall with the breaths that Marco took. Marco's hands were bigger than his own. They looked worn, calloused, but still youthful. The boy himself was like that; Older than he should be for his age, yet still thriving in the remnants of his childhood. It was a strange juxtaposition that Jean had endless trouble trying to unravel. He only stared for seconds, and Marco let him.

He laid back down, breath shaky as he looked up at the clouds in the sky. No wrathful lightning struck him where he lay, no mob rushed him for his sins, not even a blade of grass showed him any contempt. His breath came as Marco's did. They both breathed, the same air, the same rhythm. And it was alright. Marco was a person, he needed air, he needed lungs, just like Jean. Marco was a person.

"You know, Jean, you don't have to share my beliefs to be my friend." Marco finally said after a silence that spanned minutes. And Jean's breath stopped coming as Marco's did.

He hadn't thought of that. Perhaps… Perhaps it wasn't as terrible as he thought. The world didn't stop when he lay back down. He received no wrath, in any form. Not even from Marco. Friends. Friends? Could they be? Is that what they were? He felt like they were less than friends, but also more. It was more than he could comprehend, yet Marco seemed to understand it, and so much more.

"Like I said, I haven't made a personal mission out of trying to convert you. All I ask is that you extend me the same courtesy. I won't demand anything but that." He promised, sitting up. Jean looked at his back, a few crumpled blades of grass clinging to the fabric of his shirt. And he sat up too.

He still couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. Friends? Friends. How could that one word mean so many things at once? Friends meant sin. Friends meant going against everything he'd been raised to believe. But it also meant tolerance for the things he'd be raised to believe. Friends meant someone who was willing to teach, but not demand. He could learn, but not commit.

But friends also meant time. Time spent, together, apart. Friends meant secrecy and anticipation. When would someone find out? When would his father find out? When would the Father find out? What were the repercussions? Friends meant punishment. Rejection, rebuke, banishment. Friends meant many things, too many things, and how could he agree to such a loose term?

Still, his heart wanted him to say yes. Friends meant companionship. Friends meant conversation, and understanding, and fun. Friends meant smiles, and laughter, and troublemaking, and learning. Friends meant Marco, tanned, freckled, smiling, and Jean, pale, spoiled, and afraid. But curious. Always curious.

He nodded, unable to think of the correct words, relying on gesture. It was enough though. Marco smiled, nodding as well. And he lay back down, shutting his eyes against the sunshine, not bothering with trying to elicit words from his companion. Jean wouldn't know what to say anyway. But it felt strange to him to have taken such a big step, yet to participate in nothing new. They were friends now, shouldn't that change something?

He remained upright for a while longer, watching the other boy breathe, watching soft breezes tousle his short bangs. And, still, it felt like Marco would dissolve into the ground. But he wouldn't be moon flowers. No. He didn't know why, but Marco seemed more like periwinkle. Had he been mistaken in his previous comparison? No… It had simply changed. No longer was Marco mysterious and unobtainable. He was a new friend, open, exciting. And Jean couldn't wait to get to know him.

He fell back, lying down as well at last. And he tried to think of all the people he counted as friends. The list was pitifully short, and even a little questionable. Any list with Eren Jaeger on it was questionable. If he had to count Jaeger as a friend to make himself feel better about the length of his list, then something was wrong.

But now there was Marco. And Marco, even in the scant time they'd been together, had been more of a friend than most of the people on Jean's list. Even though he was different, was Pagan, was everything Jean had been silently taught to hate, he was wonderful. He was calm, and understanding, and patient. And that was perfect. That was what Jean needed. He didn't even realize he needed it, but he did.

Maybe that was why he'd been unable to resist coming back. Maybe he knew, before he even knew that he knew, that he needed this. He needed this acceptance, this patience, this understanding. He didn't have to be anything when he was lying next to Marco. He didn't have to quote the bible after every sentence, didn't need to hide his fear, didn't have to censor his thoughts. It seemed that, even if he did, Marco would know better. He was intuitive to the point that it made Jean wary. Perhaps he knew Jean better than he thought. Or maybe he just knew people.

Because, truly, who knows people better than those considered lesser by them?

Marco began humming again, and Jean listened. The tune was another one he didn't know. It sounded sad, but hopeful. And maybe that was what Marco was. Sad, but hopeful; A song to be hummed among grass and wildflowers, heard only by the ears of a friend who was learning to be sympathetic. What kind of song would Jean be? Likely quick paced and dissonant, he decided. Unlike Marco, he couldn't think in any sort of order, his thoughts coming and going in panicked waves of uncertainty.

But Marco didn't seem to mind. He just continued humming, the steady tune steadying Jean's thoughts enough that he began dozing off, only realizing when the song ceased, and the sun was setting. He bid goodbye, going home, stunned. He'd spent hours laying in a bed of flowers and grass, listening to someone hum, not conversing, not accomplishing anything. But it didn't feel wasted, didn't feel worthless. It felt nice. He liked it. He liked Marco.

A/N: This chapter wound up being sort of a bridge chapter. In a way, it's that strange point in time when a friendship becomes such in name. It doesn't really serve much more purpose than that, other than showing exactly how Jean's religion plays a part in his life.

For Jean, religion isn't something that betters his life. It's something that controls him to a degree that he can't overcome at this given point. I'd like to mention that this is not at all how religion is for everyone. Some people really do love what they believe in, and it teaches them a way to live their life that they feel is more rewarding. But Jean isn't there with his faith, and it's fear that keeps him faithful, rather than love.

I'm sure these little explanations I put in my notes are sort of unnecessary; people are clever creatures. But I also worry that my way of thinking and writing might not translate as well as I hope, so it gives me peace of mind to sort of sum it up in the end.

With that in mind, if you're ever confused about something, or just want to understand my thinking on a particular part, feel free to message me. I'd be happy to clear it up and talk with you about it. This story has sort of become my favorite, and I'm very invested in the universe, so I'm more than willing to help you get into it too!

Alright, time for me to call it good. My author's notes are always so long… Sorry about that. Just so you all know, the next chapter is a lot more eventful. More action, less thinking. Till then!

KuroRiya  
九六りや


	4. Daffodils

They found something of a routine. Jean would get up early and help Marco with whatever chore he was in the middle of at the crack of dawn, then he'd return after he'd finished working with Levi. Sometimes he'd help Marco finish something, like herding the sheep or watering the crops. Other times they'd simply lay in the grass and talk. Sometimes they wouldn't talk, and would spend the time in silent companionship.

It didn't matter what they were doing, Jean liked it. Never had silence felt so comfortable to him, or conversation so easy. Once he got over his initial caution in regards to speaking, he quickly learned that Marco didn't care what he said. Even if Jean were to say something negative about Marco's beliefs, the boy would simply explain why Jean was wrong, and then let it go.

Still, Jean didn't bring religion up much around the other teen. Beyond his uncertainty in regards to Paganism, he also saw Marco as the only person he didn't have to be religious around. While faith was something he kept with him at all times, it was not something he wanted to talk about all the time. And Marco respected that, letting Jean pick whatever topic he liked.

But Jean started to learn what Marco was interested in. The boy liked flowers, and animals, and cooking. He liked to get his hands dirty, liked to plant things, liked to raise things. But he also liked to read, and daydream, and draw. There were so few things Marco didn't do that Jean found himself overwhelmed by the sheer number.

He always made an attempt to get Marco talking about something he liked. It wasn't always successful, but it was obvious when he'd managed it. Marco's eyes would light up, and his lips would move quickly with rapid words, his voice getting higher in pitch, his motions seeming almost fidgety. Jean liked it when he got like that.

Marco would always stop after a bit, very suddenly, and his face would flush as he realized that he'd started ranting. And he'd apologize, and change the subject, and he never believed Jean when he said he didn't mind. It was a nice friendship, nonetheless.

One day, Jean asked Marco about girls. And maybe that was his first mistake. Or maybe it was one of many. Maybe it wasn't a mistake at all, but, at the time, it definitely felt like one.

Marco brushed it off. Tried to, anyway.

"Ah, no, I'm not interested in courting any of the girls in town." He'd replied sheepishly, the middle knuckle of his first finger finding its way to his lips in what Jean had learned was his nervous gesture. It had his brow quirked.

"None of them?" He wondered, wiping his brow. He was in the middle of helping Marco move some fodder for the cows, and it was harder than he'd expected. Marco shook his head.

"No, none of them." He confirmed quickly, already returning for another armful. Jean looked at him with wonder and a bit of exasperation. He wasn't sure if Marco was lying, or was simply stretching the truth.

"That's too bad. You're pretty handsome, you know." Jean offered, not missing the red that flared across the tan boy's skin, spidering outward from his face like ivy, showing even on his neck. He refused to look back towards Jean.

"You shouldn't tease me. Even if I did like someone, they wouldn't reciprocate." Marco pointed out. "I'm not exactly the most pursued bachelor in town." He added. Jean shrugged, clapping his shoulder.

"You'll never know if you don't try!" He suggested, grinning. Marco rolled his eyes, thrusting another armful of fodder into the teen's arms.

"I know. Now hush, before I bring up Mikasa." He warned. Jean only smiled.

"Go ahead, bring her up!" He taunted, following Marco back towards the cows. The tan boy only sighed.

"That's another conversation for another day." He replied softly. The way he said it was offsetting.

"Why? Let's talk about her now." Jean pressed, dropping the dried grass. Marco frowned, looking at Jean as he trapped his bottom lip between his teeth. Jean mirrored the expression, lips falling into a frown. "Hey, what's the matter? Do you not like Mikasa or something?" He inquired, watching Marco frantically shake his head.

"That's not it, Jean. I like Mikasa just fine. She's a very nice girl. It's just…" He began, trailing off. Jean groaned.

"Just?" He prompted. Marco sighed.

"It's just… I don't think it's going to work out between the two of you." He finally said. Jean's mind came to a crashing halt, staring at the other teen as if he'd grown a third arm. What did that mean?

"Why would you say that?" He questioned, gaze hardening. "Where did that even come from? You don't know Mikasa." He pointed out. Marco only looked away, brows knit together.

"I… It's just a feeling." He said, voice small and quiet. Jean only looked on in confusion.

"A feeling?" He repeated, as if for clarity. Marco nodded. Maybe it was stupid of him to get so worked up over a feeling. But, the thing about Marco's 'feelings' was that they were usually right. "What right do you have to make that assumption?" He demanded. Marco winced.

"I'm sorry Jean. I'm not going to take it back though." He replied. "I simply don't think that the two of you would work together. You aren't compatible." He explained. That only made Jean angrier.

"And how would you know?" He asked, voice rising. "Are you some kind of expert on this, all of a sudden?"

Marco didn't answer, looking down at his old, dirty shoes. No matter what Jean shouted at him, he wouldn't reply. And so, in a huff, Jean left. He ran home, ignoring his parents, locking himself in his room with his anger and uncertainty.

It was the first time he'd ever been mad at Marco. They got along so well, and he'd honestly believed that they would remain on civil terms for the rest of their lives. But Marco had said something so blatantly rude, so hateful. Maybe he didn't mean anything by it, but the words stung at Jean's heart. And surely Marco, who knew of Jean's feelings for Mikasa, should have known that his words were unwanted. So why had he said them?

And, Jean had to wonder, why was he so affected by them? It was speculation at best. From anyone else, he'd have taken it at face value, would have laughed it off. But he considered Marco a close friend. He wasn't sure when they'd passed that boundary of acquaintances and entered this new level, but they had. And the words meant more coming from someone he was close to.

And Marco was always right. Not once had something the boy said not come to pass. Not once had one of his 'feelings' been off the mark.

But Jean was determined not to let the words deter him. In fact, they gave him a new sense of courage. After washing up for the night and eating supper, he vowed to see Mikasa the very next day. He hadn't visited in a while, and he thought it was about time he ask her to enter a true courtship with him. He'd prove Marco wrong.

When morning came, he went straight to Levi's home, getting to work early to distract him from the guilt of not seeing Marco. Surely the boy was worried about their spat the day before, and, honestly, Jean wanted to make up with him. But he had a point to prove, and he wouldn't see Marco again until Mikasa had agreed to court him.

When he'd finished with work for the day, he headed over to the Jaeger residence, tapping his fingers nervously against his thigh as he waited for someone to answer his knocking at the door. He nearly lost his nerve when it was Mikasa herself that answered, looking at him shortly before opening the door to let him in. She led him into the sitting room, making him some tea before sitting down.

"Where is everyone?" He asked, noting the eerie quiet of the home.

"Eren is with Armin, and Grisha took Carla to the market." She replied easily. He nodded, sipping at the provided tea, cup shaking in his hand a bit. He couldn't find words, and, eventually, Mikasa grew bored with his silence, sighing heavily.

"Jean," She began, putting her cup down. He gave her his attention. "I understand why you are here." She said, and his eyes widened. "I'm no fool; I realize that you seek my attentions." She informed him, not letting him drop his gaze.

"While I appreciate your fondness for me, I cannot say that I return it." She admitted, and Jean's heart sunk. "You are very charming, Jean, and you are nice company to keep when Eren isn't around. But I cannot say that I will ever think of you romantically. I'm sorry." She continued.

Jean deflated, the teacup finding its saucer with a too-loud clattering of china meeting china. Mikasa sighed again, folding her hands over her lap.

"It's not that you are not attractive in looks or personality. But I'm not particularly interested in having a relationship with anyone at this point. And I don't want to allow your affections to grow when I know I'll never return them. I am sorry, Jean, and I hope you'll understand." She finished. Jean could only stare at her for a long time, then he nodded shakily.

"Uh, yeah. I mean, that's your choice." He said, more for himself than for her. It was still sinking in for him, slowly, too slowly. He didn't know what to feel yet. "And, anyway, we're not… Compatible." He blurted, shocking himself with the words. They weren't his.

Marco's face flashed through his mind. The hesitance of the day before, the hurt and resignation as Jean yelled at him. The words. Marco's words. He was right. He was always right.

Mikasa only nodded, collecting Jean's teacup with hers.

"I'm glad you understand." She said, taking the cups to the kitchen. Jean sat, trying to remember how to think, how to use his limbs. He finally got up as she returned, and she walked him to the door. "I'm sorry that I can't return your feelings, Jean. But you can still visit." She added, giving him a small smile. "Like I said, you're fine company."

He nodded, walking out stiffly, legs moving as they pleased instead of in accordance to his wishes. He found himself at the low fence before he could even convince his mind to comprehend that he was moving. Marco was waiting, sitting in the grass near the fence, and he stood when Jean stopped in front of the wood.

They simply looked at each other for a long time, then Jean stepped over the fence, and followed Marco behind the house. And he fell into his arms, and squeezed too hard, and fought the tears stinging at his eyes. Marco said nothing, patting his back softly, letting him cry into his shoulder so that the rest of the world wouldn't be able to see. He offered no words of consolation, of sympathy. But nor did he point out that he'd been right all along, that Jean had been wrong. He just offered his silent comfort.

When Jean had finished, they went to the meadow again. Jean laid himself down in the grass, curling his limbs towards his body and closing his tired eyes. Marco remained near, but he moved about, almost circling. Jean didn't bother to open his eyes. It didn't matter what the boy was doing.

He dozed, the tears having made him groggy and lethargic. And he didn't care if he slept through dinner. He didn't care if he slept through the rest of his life, as long as Marco's presence was always there at the edge of his consciousness, waiting for him to wake up.

He stirred when he felt someone rubbing his back, lashes fluttering against the grass, lips smacking a few times as he forced his stiff body to stretch and pop. Marco smiled down at him when he finally rolled onto his back, eyes open. He yawned, which earned a little chuckle.

"Good morning." Marco cooed softly, as if speaking too loud would hurt Jean any more. Jean only grumbled a bit, sighing as he located the sun, already sinking toward the horizon.

"I should go." He pointed out, sitting up. Marco nodded, standing as Jean did. He walked him to the fence, but stopped him before he could go to the other side.

He bent over, taking a small bunch of daffodils from behind one of the fence posts, where Jean had been unable to see them. He was surprised, but took the offered flowers, staring at them. Marco smiled, shooing him away before he could ask any questions.

It didn't take him long to get home, and he had to make up some excuse as to why he had a bouquet. But he eventually managed to locate a vase, and filled it with water, taking the flowers up to his room. He placed them near the window, so they could get sun during the day.

Marco had taught him that all flowers had meaning. While he'd usually think it strange to receive flowers from another boy, it was different with Marco. He was using the flowers to say something he couldn't with words. But what could daffodils mean? They were bright, almost glowing. Perhaps they were to show sympathy, or to help him get his spirits up?

He'd have to ask.

A/N: I was technically supposed to update my EreMin story next, but I was just feeling this. Maybe it's the rosehip tea.

Regardless, here is chapter four. Once again, it might seem like not much happened, and I guess you could say that this also something of a bridge chapter. But if you really pay attention, you might notice something that's going to be very important down the road. Keep that in mind. Nothing in this story happens without reason.

So, just a heads up: I just found a place to live! We're signing the lease on Monday, and then we'll be moving in shortly after that! The reason that I mention this is because I'll probably be very busy with getting packed, and unpacked, etc. The place comes with internet, but it still might take me a while to get settled in enough to post again.

I'm going to have to work more to keep up with the rent, also. I'll likely be taking longer shifts, which means less free time. That's not to say I won't update, just try to have patience as I get everything sorted out. Once I get at least the basics set up at my place, I'll start getting chapters up again. I'd anticipate a few weeks wait. Thanks for the understanding.

So, I've gotten a lot of really great comments, and as always, I just want to say that I seriously appreciate them. It means a lot to me that you guys take the time to leave such thoughtful feedback. I was really scared that this story wouldn't really translate well with readers, but you have all been incredible perceptive of what I'm trying to convey. I'm so glad for that.

Alright, thanks for reading. As always, feedback is incredibly helpful, and I can never get enough. I love to hear what you guys think. And I'm happy to explain anything that might have you confused. Even if you just want to discuss something, I'm happy to do that too.

Off I go. I've work tomorrow, so I should probably get some rest. Thanks again!

KuroRiya  
九六りや


	5. Day Lilies

In the end, he neglected to ask about the daffodils. He guessed that Marco wouldn't tell him, anyway. If he was going to give him a straight answer, he wouldn't have bothered with the flowers in the first place. No, he'd have to ask someone else what daffodils meant. But he couldn't think of anyone who would bother with knowing what each individual flower meant. He'd have to keep his eyes peeled.

In the meantime, he devoted all of the time he'd once spent with Mikasa to Marco instead. He used to visit the girl about twice a week, and now that it was clear she had no intentions of courting him, there was no real need for it. They could socialize at church.

Marco never brought up that another of his 'feelings' had come to pass. They always came to pass. Jean was beginning to wonder where on earth the boy had gotten his sense of intuition. He was a little jealous of it. If he was that good at guessing things, then he'd be a lot luckier in life, that's for sure.

But he was sort of scared to ask. What if Marco told him it was thanks to some sort of ritual he'd done? No, Jean decided he was better off not knowing at all.

On that particular occasion, he found himself treading through the tall grass, walking next to Marco at a lazy pace. Levi had given him the day off, much to his surprise when he got to the office. With a whole day and no responsibilities, he'd chosen to spend his time with his closest friend.

When had Marco earned that position? Who had filled it before? It seemed to Jean that, compared to Marco, no one had ever really been a close friend. What a strange thing to think.

Marco saw fit to celebrate Jean's day off, and somehow coerced a few of his siblings into taking over his chores for the day so he could spend the entire time with Jean. Once the tasks had been delegated, he'd beckoned for Jean to follow him back to the familiar meadow that they always spent their free time in. But he'd kept walking past it, jumping over the fence that signified what land belonged to him, and what land did not.

Jean hesitated, coming to a halt with his knees pressed against the thick beam of wood. Once upon a time, the fence had been the boundary between where he was allowed to go, and where he was not. He'd grown accustomed to breaking that rule.

But now Marco was outside of the fence.

He'd never seen Marco outside of the fence.

And suddenly the fence felt more like it'd been built to keep something in than to keep something out.

Marco turned, looking at him with a quirked brow. He didn't smile, but nor did he frown as he waited for Jean to make his decision.

"I'm not taking you anywhere that people would see us." He offered, a hint of sadness muddying the ale color of his eyes. Jean swallowed, internally berating himself for his fear. Marco's words had quelled it, but he felt a wave of disgust for himself. Because Marco had been spot on. Jean was scared of being seen with the other boy.

He wished he could say otherwise. He wished he could claim to be brave enough to walk down the main street, right past his own home, right past his father's office, right next to Marco. But he wasn't. He couldn't.

He stepped over the fence, following behind Marco as the darker boy began walking again. He watched the way Marco's legs carried him, as if they were used to taking this route. He watched the way Marco's shoulders and hips swung just a little to the pace of his steps. He watched the way Marco leaned just a little to the left when he walked. Because of the leg he'd broken as a child.

"Are you going to walk behind me the rest of the way?"

Jean jumped, Marco's voice startling him out of his reverie. He took a moment to decipher what had been said, then he quickened his pace to walk beside Marco again.

"Sorry." He offered softly, and Marco only smiled, a sort of melancholy smile.

They walked long enough that Jean decided they were out of the town's limits. But still, Marco kept walking, and eventually they came to a small forest. Jean looked at the tree line for a while, deciding that he didn't recognize it, and turned to Marco. But the other boy had already plunged in, following a path that he was clearly familiar with.

Jean bit his lip but couldn't keep himself from following. It crossed his mind only for a moment that maybe Marco was taking him so far away to do him harm. But he immediately shook that idea out of his head, ashamed he'd even thought it.

So caught up in self-hatred was he that he ran into Marco, who had halted in front of him. He backed off, looking up to make eye contact. Marco frowned.

"You're scared." He proclaimed. Jean's lips fell open in wonder. He didn't deny it. "You don't need to be. It's nothing bad, I promise."

Marco didn't seem as hurt as he should have. And that hurt Jean in turn. Had the boy come to expect Jean's fear of him, even after they'd become so close? He couldn't blame him.

They got back to walking, and Jean followed with more confidence this time, walking a little closer than he had before, as if that might make up for his moment of weakness, his moment of unwarranted distrust. Marco paid it no mind, even when their shoulders brushed a few times.

Their destination became obvious with the sound of rushing water. And, sure enough, Marco led them to a riverbank. The water stretched in either direction further than Jean could see, and the water was clear enough for him to see some fish swimming lazily against the current.

Marco sat down on a large rock, unbuckling the shoes he always wore and pulling them off, letting them fall next to him. His feet were a few shades lighter than the rest of him, but still darker than any part of Jean. His toes curled and uncurled against the rocky sand, and he sighed, a soft smile gracing his lips.

Jean watched, looking down at his own shoes. He hadn't played in a river since he was very young. Eren had convinced he and Armin that it was a good idea, and they'd jumped in. Jean couldn't speak for the other boys, but his own mother had been furious when he came home soaking wet, clothes and shoes ruined.

Marco looked over to him, smile still glowing, and laughed.

"Are you going to make me go swimming by myself?" He wondered, standing up and undoing the buttons of his waistcoat.

Jean sucked in a breath, looking down at his shoes again, the gold buckles shimmering in the sunshine. They were almost mocking.

As if in retaliation, he toed them off, leaving them next to Marco's. And then he got to work on his own waistcoat, having several more buttons to deal with. Marco was already taking down his trousers by the time Jean had gotten through them all. His breeches proved a lot more troublesome too. Marco stood in only his shirt, the fabric hanging loose now that it had been freed from his trousers.

He knelt down and helped Jean with his garters, stepping back to let Jean roll down his stockings. And then Jean hesitated, standing in only his shirt as well. Marco's fingers were already working at his own buttons, but Jean's only twitched at his sides.

He'd never been naked in front of anyone outside of his family. Even when he'd gone swimming with Eren and Armin, they'd all simply jumped in, clothes and all. But he was old enough to know that he couldn't do that.

Marco didn't seem to mind at all; He was already letting the fabric slip over his shoulders, revealing even more freckles and a confidence that Jean didn't possess. But he seemed to pick up on it, and he paused, looking over to where Jean was watching him. And he smiled, pulling his shirt back over his shoulders, and he approached.

Jean almost ran, but he managed to stay in place, and he looked up once Marco was before him. The darker of the two reached out, slowly undoing each button of Jean's shirt, carefully pushing them through the buttonholes until the fabric fell open. Jean's toes curled.

Marco let his own shirt fall first, then he coaxed Jean's over his shoulders, catching it before it hit the ground and letting it fall onto the pile of Jean's other clothes instead of in the ground.

Jean's breath was a sharp intake, but he didn't reach for the security, letting it come in the form of clenched fists and closed eyes. He thought he could feel Marco's eyes all over him, silently laughing at his paleness, at his obviously wealthy upbringing. He was a spoiled boy, and he knew it, and he sometimes wished he knew a harder life. A life more like Marco's.

But when he opened his eyes, Marco was nowhere to be seen at all. He blinked, head snapping in either direction as his eyes sought out the familiar form. His ears located his companion first though, a soft splashing that drew his eyes in the proper direction. He'd looked just in time to see Marco surface from the water, already several feet away from the bank.

Doing his best not to hesitate anymore, as it was proving a fruitless thing that day, Jean stepped into the water, walking forward a few paces and gasping when it got suddenly deeper, his feet meeting no purchase where he'd expected it. His limbs instinctively began to flail, as if that might help him.

Marco swam to his side, pulling him back a bit till his feet found sand again.

"You can't swim." The larger observed, and Jean felt a blush bloom across his cheeks.

"Not well." He agreed, toes curling against the strange sensation of the fine rocks, almost silky under the water. Marco smiled, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him back to where the bottom dropped off, sending Jean into a frenzy for a moment. Then he realized that Marco was easily keeping him afloat, and he calmed down, focusing instead on moving his limbs productively.

"I've taught plenty of my brothers and sisters to swim." Marco announced, kicking rhythmically underneath himself, legs brushing Jean's on occasion. Jean flinched every time it happened. "I don't see why I can't teach you."

And so he did. It seemed almost hopeless at first, seeing as Jean was prone to panicking as soon as he was released, but he eventually worked up the coordination to go back and forth between the two banks. He wasn't nearly as good as Marco, but at least he wasn't at risk of drowning anymore.

The mountain water started getting to him a little after the hottest part of the day. The sun had painted him red, and the cold water chilled the burn to the point that he was shivering, so Marco shooed him out onto the bank, chasing him into the grass where they both laid out, letting the sun dry them off. Jean knew he'd regret it, but he was already burnt, what harm could a few more minutes do, really?

Marco got up first, and he disappeared into the trees somewhere, moving too fast for Jean to even try following behind. He instead found some shade, picking up first his, then Marco's clothes and moving them to the spot he'd chosen. He slipped his shirt back on, doing up some of the buttons, but he got bored with it part of the way through, so the top buttons remained undone.

When Marco returned, he dropped a whole armful of flowers in Jean's lap, giggling happily, as if he'd accomplished something grand. Jean quirked a brow, looking down at them. They were all the same kind of flower; Lilies. But they weren't tiger lilies, like he'd given Mikasa. These ones were yellow and orange, bright and vibrant, similar in coloring to the daffodils he'd been gifted before.

"Are these for me?" He asked, gathering them into a neat array while Marco shoved his arms into his own shirt, nodding. Jean couldn't help a small smile.

"Just in time. Mother made me throw out the daffodils just yesterday. They'd wilted something terrible." He confided. Marco grinned, flopping down next to the other boy and helping him gather up the flowers. Once they were all organized, Jean put them aside, leaning against the tree he'd picked for shade and heaving a sigh.

"What do these flowers mean?" He asked. "And the daffodils. You never told me." He recalled. As expected, Marco only shook his head, his smile going coy. Jean sighed again, shrugging.

"I guess I'll have to ask someone else, then." Was his eventual reply.

They basked in the sunlight for a while, then Marco beckoned him into the forest where they picked some berries. Jean had never tasted them fresh from the bush, had never had the chance to pick them. They were incredible; Sun-warmed and just a little sour from being picked early.

It wasn't until the sun began dipping towards the horizon that they reluctantly returned to their clothes and put them back on, walking back along the path they'd taken that morning. Jean's shirt, however fine the linen, felt scratchy against his fresh sunburn, and the few ruffles seemed almost heavy. Even more so when he called his goodbye to Marco and headed for home by himself, hopping the fence with a bit of difficulty, considering how many flowers he was attempting to carry.

He was determined not to leave a single one behind. And he'd thus far been successful. He dropped a few at the door in his attempts to get it open, but he came back for them after he'd retrieved a vase and some fresh water.

Again, he was questioned on the origins of the flowers, but his mother was sated when he said he'd received them from Mikasa. It was a bit strange for a girl to give him flowers, but it was a much more acceptable explanation than the truth.

"Oh, her affections are growing!" His mother squealed with pride, kissing his cheek as if he'd given her a wonderful gift. "First daffodils, and now day lilies! And so soon!" She chirped.

Jean's brows knit, and he grabbed for his mother's hands.

"What are you on about?" He asked. She giggled gleefully, kissing his cheek again.

"Oh Jean, I couldn't possibly tell you! Maybe you should have paid more attention when I was telling your young ears." She cooed, pulling her hands away and dancing towards the kitchen. Jean watched her go, looking back at his flowers in confusion.

She'd said 'affections are growing,' but that was her thinking in regards to Mikasa. If Jean mentioned they were from a male friend instead, would the meaning change? Surely so. And maybe he was overthinking it… After all, affections could be friendly. His mother was known to blow things out of proportion, so this was probably a case like that.

"Jean?" She called, poking her head out of the doorway to the kitchen, looking at him skeptically. "Why are you so red? Did you get a sunburn?"

He stiffened, fist clenching subconsciously at his side.

"Uh… Yeah." He admitted, eyes dropping to the golden buckles of his shoes again. They still seemed mocking. "Levi had me looking around town most of the day, so I was outside for hours. You know, looking for anything story worthy." He lied, stomach sinking. Lying was a sin. But telling the truth would have been even more dangerous.

His mother smiled wryly, returning to the kitchen.

"He'll make you a journalist yet." She called. "Just don't tell your father I said so." She added, laughing. Jean tried to laugh too, the sound half-hearted but enough to fool his mother. He retreated quickly to his bedroom, setting the flowers down and staring at them as if demanding answers, as if they could explain away his confusion and worry.

The flowers, of course, gave him none.

A/N: Sorry for the wait, but I'm in the middle of moving out, and school just started up, so life's been a bit hectic, to say the very least. I'm starting to get settled in, but I've still got a lot to do. Still, I felt bad leaving everyone in the dark. So I'm trying to get some updates up while I have the opportunity.

This chapter is a bit more lighthearted, or so I hope. And a bit more interesting than the bridge chapters. I didn't realize, when I was writing them, that the previous two were sort of uneventful. But you know how writing goes; One chapter at a time.

It's been mentioned to me in a comment that I ought to put the meanings of the flowers in the ending comments. (I haven't had time to respond to comments yet, and am about to have to give my roommate the internet for a bit.) And I totally understand where that is coming from, but I think half the fun is looking it up and learning something new. But if that's not really your thing, most, if not all, of the flowers are eventually explained in the story, at some point. It's still worth looking, though. You'll have a better idea of what's going on much earlier on if you do! That's up to you guys though!

I've got to wrap up, but I want to go ahead and establish a tag on tumblr. You never know when that'll be useful, you know? So if you guys want to post anything related to this story, from questions to feedback, or even fanwork (maybe someday, if I keep wishing on the stars) you can tag it with "fic wwfg" and I will see it. And if you want to just find me on tumblr and be friends or something like that, I'm the same there. Just KuroRiya.

Thanks so much for all the support thus far, you guys have been absolutely fantastic! I'll try to update again soon, and respond to your comments! Till then, feedback is always appreciated!

KuroRiya

九六りや


	6. Forcythia

Church had never felt so stifling. Sure, it was always bothersome to get up early Sunday morning, to put on his nicest, stuffiest clothes, to walk in his tightest, pinchiest shoes all the way to the church. But what made it particularly unbearable on that particular July morning was that he had to pass by Marco without acknowledging him.

He couldn't wave. He couldn't smile. He couldn't walk over to the fence, couldn't hop over it, couldn't walk to their meadow and lay in the grass for hours. He had to look at Marco, who was out getting eggs, and then look away. He had to force a sneer onto his face, just like the one his father wore. Just like the one everyone around him wore.

It hurt. He didn't have to look to know that Marco was feeling the hurt too. He'd never been out while Jean was heading for church before. He couldn't even watch as Marco returned to his home with haste, not turning back to look at the procession of people heading for their weekly sermon. He heard the door close, though. He wished he was behind it.

He was shoved in between his father and his neighbor. She smiled at him, lifting her arms up as the small choir started singing. Her voice was terribly off key, and he could smell her sweat when she lifted her arms. Was she touching God up there? He wondered.

The air was hard to breathe. It was sticky already with summer humidity, and then they continued to fill it up with hymns and prayers. The words were thick, laden with meanings that Jean suddenly found he was having a hard time understanding. The words filtered into his ears like he was underwater, the sound warped and more confusing than it ought to have been.

His father looked down at him, a sneer pulling at his lips as he looked upon his son. He wasn't sure if he was flushed from heat or if it was just the remnants of his sunburn, but either way, he was sweating like… Well, a sinner in church.

He fanned himself absently with his hand, feeling literally no relief from the action but pretending like he did. It was better than sitting idly. And he tried to focus on the preacher, on what he was saying. He'd heard it a million times, they all had, but he needed to appease his father. He needed to appease everyone.

He mumbled amen when everyone else did, he stood when it was time to stand. And, when it was all over, he walked home with his mother and father and spent the day doing nothing, as was his job. Laying in his bed, the once-cool sheets warming with his body heat and making him even hotter, he wished that he could be with Marco instead. It felt like a waste of time to sit in his stuffy room, but he wouldn't be able to sneak out without being questioned about his intentions. It was easier to just pretend that everything was as it always was on a Sunday.

But by midafternoon, he couldn't take it anymore. Making some excuse about taking a long walk, he scurried off, taking the least visible route he could think of to get to the Bodt house. He knew everyone was in their house, lounging, just waiting to catch someone not doing the same. So he tried his best not to be seen at all.

When he got to the right property, disoriented at first by coming from a different direction, he hopped the fence. He was near the meadow, yet unable to see the house in much detail. But he knew Marco wouldn't mind him letting himself in, and he walked with purpose.

He yelped when he tripped over something, stumbling into the tall grass. Whatever he'd tripped over yelped too, and he scrambled to get himself upright so he could see what exactly he'd walked into.

A pair of earthy eyes stared back at him, freckled limbs stretched out across the grass. His hands were busy nursing his side though, likely where Jean had walked into him.

"Hello, Jean." He offered, wincing even as he tried to smile. Jean blinked, then sat down next to him.

"Hi, Marco." He returned, lying down. The sun had moved enough that it wasn't directly in his eyes, and he was able to find shapes in the clouds as they lapsed into silence. Jean could barely hear Marco breathing, but it was a nice sound, soothing even.

"How was church?" Marco finally asked, turning his head. Jean barked out a laugh.

"Hot." Was all he mustered. Marco chuckled, stretching his arms towards the sky.

"That's why I'm out here. It was too hot in the house, with all those children running around." He lamented. Jean scoffed.

"You don't count yourself among the children?" He wondered.

"I'm technically a man." Was the reply.

They lapsed into silence again as Jean considered that information. He'd never asked how old Marco was. It hadn't ever really mattered.

"When is your birthday?" He questioned. Marco smiled, hands falling back to the ground. His fingers brushed against Jean's.

"June sixteenth. I turned nineteen." He offered. Jean hummed in acknowledgement.

"Sorry I missed it."

"And I'm sorry I missed yours. You'll be eighteen next April, right?" Marco said, as if he wasn't sure. Jean knew better.

"How did you know that?" He wondered. He didn't recall ever mentioning that.

"I listen." Was all that Marco said.

It was quiet again, and they returned to staring at the clouds. Jean could still feel Marco's warm fingers against his own, but he didn't dare move his hand away. He didn't want Marco to take it the wrong way. He didn't mind touching Marco. Not anymore, anyway. He wasn't scared.

At some point, Marco rolled over onto his side, using one arm to prop him up, the other resting against the grass, still barely brushing against Jean's knuckles. He looked over Jean's face, smiling brightly.

"You're still red." He observed, and Jean felt his face get even hotter.

"You're still freckled." He retorted. Marco laughed, his nose crinkling.

"And always will be." He agreed, sobering a bit. "We Bodts die freckled."

Jean grinned too, imagining Marco, almost exactly the same, but with white hair. Still covered in freckles. That made him laugh just a little. Marco chuckled along, even though he couldn't possibly know what Jean pictured.

Even when they calmed down, Marco's smile stayed in place, tugging at the very corners of his lips, as if that was an easier expression for him to maintain. Smiling was always tiring for Jean.

His eyes, the color of rum again that day, fell downward, and Jean thought he was tracing over different blades of grass. It seemed he'd theorized wrong though, for in the next moment his eyes were drawn to the same place. Marco's fingers had danced along his own, and now they rested nearby, curled as if unsure of what they should do.

Jean looked up, but Marco wasn't looking at him, eyes still trained on his hand. And he looked there as well, his own fingers twitching now. He suddenly felt restless, like he needed something to occupy his hands with. So he ripped up a few blades of grass, but that brought him no relief.

Marco lay back down on his back, heaving a sigh. Jean tried to distract himself with the clouds again. But now all he could think about was Marco's hand. His big, tanned, freckled hand. Not even an inch away.

He got a bit of a start when he felt the fingers he'd been thinking about wrap around his own. It was a slow motion, each one carefully sliding into place until his hand was trapped beneath Marco's. But it wasn't forceful. He could easily pull away. And his mind was telling him that that was exactly what he needed to do. No matter how he tried to rationalize it, they were holding hands.

But his body wouldn't listen. He just sort of froze up, lying still as Marco sighed next to him. It sounded almost happy. He wondered why.

Marco squeezed, and Jean felt his stomach leap. It felt like fear. But it was different. Just a little.

Marco didn't say anything, and Jean couldn't get his mouth to cooperate. He was left instead to think about what exactly it was he was doing. He knew they were holding hands, but refused to acknowledge what that meant. It was like his mind was actively trying to block him from coming to any sort of conclusion.

But eventually the sermon started to filter its way into his mind. They'd spoken about these sorts of feelings just that morning; The devil himself was trying to sway him to sin.

He leapt away from Marco as if he'd been burned, eyes suddenly wide and frantic. Marco stared at him, holding his gaze until, in a panic, Jean bolted for the fence, legs not slowing in their sprint until he was gasping for breath on his front porch. He took a moment to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow. Just in time for his mother to come out, concern lacing her features.

"Jean?" She called, startling him to the core. He took a step back, eyes going wide yet again, as if she might suddenly lunge at him. She did no such thing, brows knitting instead with worry. "Jean?" She repeated.

Realization snapped him to attention, and he immediately tried to make himself presentable.

"S-Sorry mom." He offered shakily. She looked him up and down, eyes seeking out an ailment. When she found none, she frowned.

"Take a moment to calm down." She warned. "Then come inside. Dinner is nearly ready."

He could have cried with relief that she hadn't asked any question. He was fortunate that it hadn't been his father that came out to see what had him so flustered. His mother could be reasoned with. His father's belt could not.

Once he'd caught his breath and the flush from his run had died down, he went inside, washing up for dinner and saying the prayer with his family, as he always did. He tried his best to ignore his father as the man blamed the scorching heat on the Bodts. Jean wasn't sure how he'd come to the conclusion that the two were even remotely related, but he was too afraid to say so.

When the meal was over, he retreated to his room, shutting himself inside and praying he wasn't bothered again for the rest of the night. Inside, he headed for his bed, but halted as his eyes were attracted by a bright splash of yellow. He turned to the flowers, his hand tingling where it had touched dark skin. He retraced his steps, joining his mother in the kitchen where she was washing the dinner dishes. He could smell the tobacco from his father's pipe, and knew that he'd be in the parlor to smoke. That meant he wouldn't be able to hear.

"Mom." He said softly. She jumped, turning to him.

"Oh, Jean, you startled me!" She laughed, returning promptly to the dishes. He sidled up next to her.

"Sorry. Um…" He paused, searching for the words. "You remember those flowers I brought home?" He began. She nodded. "Well, I know you said that you couldn't tell me what they mean…" He trailed. She halted, turning slowly to look at him. He looked away.

"Look, I know you want me to figure it out for myself, but I don't know who else to ask." He admitted, turning back to her hopefully.

She stared him down, then sighed.

"Oh, alright." She huffed, picking up another dish and scrubbing. "Day lilies are a flirtation." She explained. Jean swallowed harshly.

A flirtation? Like holding hands. A flirtation.

"T-That's it? There's no alternate meaning?" He hoped. She shook her head, and his stomach fell a little.

"And… And daffodils?" He whispered. She tutted.

"Well, that depends on the situation. They can mean that the giver feels sympathy for the recipient, or that they feel their love is unreciprocated. So you'll have to determine which one it was for yourself." She barked. He flinched, backing away from the counter.

She watched him carefully, eyes narrowed as he slowly retreated, stumbling when he ran into the table.

"Jean?" She said, motherly concern lacing her tone. His lip trembled.

"U-Um, thank you." He offered, making a break for his room. He banged his shoulder against the frame of his doorway, but even that would not slow him down. He hissed against the pain, otherwise ignoring it as he shut himself in once again, eyes flying once more to the flowers. They were the same as when he'd left them, still vibrant yellow and orange, still lilies, still a flirtation.

He approached, letting the pads of his fingers dance along the petals, each one feeling like a soft caress of Marco's hand against his. But each one also felt like a thrashing with his father's belt. Each one felt like a pair of eyes staring at him as he walked down the street, murmuring slurs even worse than 'pagan' or 'witch.'

With unwarranted anger, he grabbed the entire vase, storming over to his window, still gaping open in hopes of letting in a breeze, and his arms got as far as thrusting the entire vase out, but he hesitated, hands trembling where they felt the weight of all the gorgeous, still-fragrant lilies.

He tried again to let them fall. Vase and all. But it was like the damned thing was glued to his hands. He couldn't pry his fingers away.

With a frustrated groan, he pulled them back in, glaring at their overwhelmingly bright petals, hands still shaking as he sat the vase back down on his table. He collapsed in his chair, running his hand down his face.

"What am I doing?" He asked aloud, voice shaky. His fingers came up to subconsciously trace the contours of each petal. And he found he didn't have the energy to stop himself. All he really had the energy to do was fear, and anticipate.

Jean was headed down a dangerous road, and he was well aware of it. He should have realized it sooner. Maybe he had, and he'd just denied it. He knew that his friendship with Marco was not accurately named. He'd known from the beginning that they weren't friends. They were more. They were less. They were something else entirely. He knew that. He'd ignored it.

He'd known that Marco sought more from him than just company. It was obvious in the way his eyes would find Jean automatically, even before Jean knew he was coming over, Marco's eyes would be on him. It was like he sensed it.

It was obvious in the way that Marco lingered in any touch, even the smallest brushing of arms or shoulders. In the way he held the egg basket just so that Jean would have to almost hold his hand to get it. In the way that he'd stretch just enough that they wound up closer together in the grass.

It was in the way his eyes, the color of good alcohol and life shone every time he looked Jean's way.

He'd ignored it. He'd ignored everything.

Unable to deal with anything in that moment, he threw himself into his bed, pulling his sheets over his head, ignoring the heat that threatened to choke the life out of him. Maybe that was for the best.

He buried his face in his pillows, inhaling his own familiar scent. It was just a little sour. He needed to air out his bedding. He tried to keep telling himself that, to distract himself. It wasn't working. All he could think about was Marco. Marco who had talked to him. Marco who had been his friend. Marco who had taken him swimming. Marco who had given him flowers. Marco who had held his hand.

Marco.

Marco who wanted more than friendship.

It wasn't even the fact that he was Pagan. Sure, that was a problem, but it wasn't the biggest problem. No. The problem was, Marco was a boy. A man. If he was seeking Jean's affections… That made him a sodomite. And Jean knew what Christians thought of people like that. Knew what his father thought of people like that.

If there was one thing that Joan Kirstein hated more than the Pagans, it was the homosexuals. Often, over dinner, during parties, even around the fire when Jean was young, he'd tell the story of the time he'd led a lynch mob and dealt with one such sodomite. He was proud to describe how unrecognizable the man's face had been when they finally took pity and hung him.

They'd left the body to dangle from the big tree on the main road. Right near the post office. Everyone saw it. No one dared take it down till it was putrid and close to rotting.

Jean retched at the mental image. He'd been fortunate enough not to be alive yet, but he could imagine. He could picture the body, sturdy from work, but still powerless under so many angry hands. He could smell the burning flesh, could almost taste the coppery flavor of blood that would be on the air. And he could see the gaping wound that might have once been a face. He could see where part of a jaw had once been. He could see one eye left, whiskey brown and frozen open in terror. He could see a white shirt, cheap linen ripped, one arm unaccounted for. One buckled shoe was missing too. Only one brass buckle, fighting against the dirt and blood coating it to gleam in the sunlight.

And he could see the freckles. So many freckles. More than he could count.

He cried out, sitting up and panting, looking about his room frantically. It was dark. When had it become dark? What time was it?

He leapt up, still clothed from his day, and ran for his door. Then he was down the stairs and out the front door, not even stopping when his mother, candle in hand, tried to question him. He ran for the post office, as fast as he could manage, collapsing in the street once he'd arrived.

Nothing. There was nothing in the big tree. Only leaves.

He cried, holding himself as he leaned against a barrel. He tried to stay quiet, lest someone hear him. But still, his wails were too loud. He knew it. But he was too relieved to stop.

When his sobs had been reduced to soft hiccups, he forced himself to his weary feet, trudging back home. There was a candle in the window, flickering, waiting for him. He sucked in a breath of air, pressing forward. His mother was upon him immediately, worry overtaking her usually kind features. She pulled him into the parlor, and there was his father, smoking his pipe still.

His father looked up, and looked at his son harshly.

"Where did you go?" He demanded. Jean froze, words caught in his throat.

"T-To the post office, sir." He replied, his words betraying his mind's desperate need to lie.

His father quirked a brow. A seemingly innocent but incredibly dangerous gesture.

"And what on earth for, boy?" He inquired. Jean swallowed with much effort, toes curling nervously in his shoes.

_Lie. _His mind begged. _LIE._

"To see the hanging tree." He answered, frame quivering. Joan watched him for a long moment, then a grin found his lips.

"A worthy trip." He announced, heels of his shoes clicking as he stood. They had gold buckles. Just like his belt. Jean flinched when his father's hand fell on his shoulder. "Don't ever forget what that tree is for." He whispered, passing Jean and heading up the stairs. With a worried glance between them both, Jean's mother followed.

Jean stood, stunned, unsure of what he'd learned that night. What, exactly, did his father know? How would he ever find out?

With a shudder, he went up the stairs, letting himself into his room. He was just about to lie down in his bed again when he realized something. His room was different, somehow. Something was wrong. He paused, looking about.

His eyes found his table. It was clear. Nothing on it. Not a single petal.

He blinked, approaching it, as if the table might be playing a trick on him, as if his eyes were. But no matter how hard he looked, the flowers were nowhere to be seen.

His heart fell into his stomach, and he looked at the window. It was still gaping. And he walked over, looking outside, first at the stars, then at the ground.

Below lay the shards of the vase, the lilies crushed from impact with the ground. They looked like they'd been stepped on, too.

Breathless, he pulled his head back into his room, shutting the window and crawling into bed. The house was silent, dark, and yet… He felt cramped. As if, somehow, there were eyes on him every second. He'd never felt that way before, but one thing had become clear.

Joan knew.

What he knew, Jean didn't know. Maybe he knew little, maybe he knew everything. Regardless, Joan knew too much. And Jean felt fear even greater than that he held for the Father. For his own father had proven much more frightening than God on so many occasions. Jean felt threatened, he was scared.

But the thing that scared him the most, even more than his fear of his own father, was that he was not afraid for himself.

He was afraid for Marco.

And what did that mean? Did that mean that, without even realizing, he'd come to return the boy's feelings? Did he want more than friendship from Marco too? Was he really willing to forsake his own soul for love of another man? Well…

Damned if he did.

Damned if he didn't.

The question was, what sort of damned did he want to be?

A/N: I wish I had time for a long author's note, but I have to get myself to work, I'm afraid. This chapter is the longest one out of 15, if I'm not mistaken. And I think that's because a lot happened, huh? Well, I feel that way, but maybe you guys don't. It's hard to think of this in the terms of someone who doesn't know as much as I do. Such is the bane of every writer's existence.

So, the day lilies got a lot of attention last chapter, and apparently caused no shortage of confusion. They've been defined here, but for future reference, I go to buzzle's list of flowers with meanings and pictures for my definitions. You're welcome to look that list up, or you can use any one that you want. I was surprised at how well other meanings from other sites could be applied to the story as well.

Alright, I really do have to get going. If there's anything else you'd like to discuss, you're welcome to ask about it or bring it up in a comment/review. I do reply to all of those, to the best of my abilities. And, if you feel inspired, or just want to say hello, you can tag things for this story with fic wwfg on tumblr. Till next time!

KuroRiya

九六りや


	7. Carnations

Jean found himself too afraid to see Marco again for several days. He went to the trouble of taking the long way to get home just so he wouldn't have to face Marco. It felt pathetic, especially since he couldn't figure out for the life of him what exactly he was afraid of. Was it dealing with Marco and his feelings, or was it the fear that his father would somehow find out, that he somehow already knew?

Regardless, Jean's own need of the boy's company eventually brought him back, lingering awkwardly at the fence. He wasn't sure if he was welcome anymore. As if he'd been waiting, Marco opened the door to his house, head coming out first to stare at Jean for a moment. Then his body followed, and he shut the door behind him, walking over to the fence. It was a slow pace, and Jean wondered if that was because Marco didn't want to see him, or if he was giving Jean the chance to run if he wanted to. Maybe it was both.

When Marco was before him, everything Jean had planned to say escaped him. He only stared, probably gaping a little. And Marco waited, holding still, not making any movements until Jean did. He began walking, straight to the meadow, and Jean followed wordlessly. It wasn't until they'd sat down among the wildflowers and tall grass that either of them spoke.

"…Sorry." Jean breathed. There was so much more that he wanted to say, so much more he needed to say. But nothing else would come out.

Marco didn't seem to mind, only nodding. For once, he didn't offer his sunny smile. But he didn't look angry, and that in itself was a comfort.

Already feeling relieved, Jean let himself fall into the grass, comforted by the familiar smells and sounds that surrounded him. For a moment, he forgot his fears, comforted in the thought that no one could see them when they were buried in such tall greenery.

And so, when Marco's hand sought his again, even more cautious this time, he let him hold it. He squeezed the long digits, filled the spaces between them with his own. Marco's hand was warm, and he hadn't realized that, in the past few days, he'd been feeling pretty cold. Even in the July heat, he had a constant chill, deep in his bones. And now it was gone.

They didn't speak again until hours had passed, and Jean announced that he needed to get home. Marco let him go, getting up to walk him to the fence. After hopping over it, Jean turned, and they exchanged one last glance before he headed for home.

In the days that followed, their routine returned mostly to how it had been. Jean would come in the morning to help with the early chores, and then again when he got done working for Levi, staying as late as he could.

The only thing that really changed was how they behaved around one another. Now, when they went to the meadow to pass their time talking, their hands remained linked between them. When Jean helped Marco fetch the eggs in the morning, his hand would linger against Marco's as they traded the basket between them. When they snuck off to the river to go swimming again, he didn't flinch when Marco's legs brushed his.

He didn't dare bring flowers home again. And Marco somehow knew better than to give him any bouquets. But after nearly a week of their revised routine, it seemed Marco couldn't help himself anymore. On his way over the fence, Marco grabbed Jean's hand, not letting it go until Jean had a grip on a single white carnation.

With a quirked brow and a grin, he turned back, looking at Marco expectantly.

"Will you tell me what this one means, or do I have to ask my mother again?" He wondered. Marco only smiled coyly, waving.

Jean barked a laugh, then went on his way, twirling the stem between his fingers and admiring the white petals, nearing full bloom. His good mood followed him all the way to the front door, then his heart slid directly into his stomach, no longer held aloft by fluttering butterflies of pleasant nervousness. No, that had quickly been replaced by a crippling fear.

Was his father home? What would he say if he saw the flower? What would he do?

He bit his lip, stuffing the flower into his waistcoat as delicately as he could while still being inconspicuous. Figuring that was the best he could do, he took a breath and opened the door.

A sigh of relief escaped when it was only his mother home, and he tiptoed into the kitchen, surprising her with a quick peck to her cheek. She nearly jumped out of her skin, but then giggled, shooing him out of her kitchen when he stuck his finger in the filling of the pie she was working on. He cackled as he shuffled out, licking the cherry off of his finger before heading for his room, placing the carnation across his headboard.

Nothing in his room had been disturbed since he'd found the broken vase, but that didn't mean that his father wasn't going through his things on a daily basis. Jean honestly wondered about it, but he didn't own anything incriminating, so it wasn't really an issue, more of an annoyance.

But now he had this flower. He could only hope that, seeing as it was a single bloom and therefore less obvious, that it would be left alone. It wasn't as if he could carry it around with him. And, beyond that, who's to say he didn't pick it himself? There was no reason for Joan to believe that it was a gift from the Pagan boy.

Still, he knew better than to ask his mother the meaning this time. No, that might have been his downfall last time. He'd just have to find someone else to ask, or simply live with not knowing. As long as it made Marco happy to have given it, then Jean was happy too.

He washed up, making sure no blades of grass stuck to his clothes, then he joined his mother in the kitchen once again, for once being a good child and helping her cook dinner. Of course, he also used the opportunity to steal bites when he thought she wasn't looking. She was always looking. But she didn't really mind, he could tell. She was probably just glad to have company.

They were just finishing when Jean heard his father's heels clicking against the front steps, and he stiffened, retreating from the food and hastily taking a seat at the table. If his father saw him cooking… Well, that was a thrashing he'd rather avoid.

When Joan made it to the kitchen, he sniffed appreciatively, taking a moment to kiss his wife and shoot his son a look, then his footsteps could be heard going all the way up the stairs and to his washing basin.

Jean sighed when the man was out of sight, shoulders stooping as his finger traced patterns in the wood of the table for lack of better things to do. His mother offered him a sympathetic glance, rushing to finish as quickly as possible, lest the man of the house come down and find he had to wait.

She finished making his plate just in time to set it down as he pulled a chair out and took his seat. Then she made Jean's plate, and finally her own. Then she sat, and they all said grace, and finally got to work on the meal. It was good, and Joan even complemented the potatoes, in a roundabout way. Jean did his very best not to grin with the knowledge that the potatoes had been his own doing.

After dinner, his mother sliced the pie, giving him a wink as she handed him an extra-large slice, and he beamed, scarfing it down fast enough that he nearly didn't taste it. Nearly.

Once everyone had finished eating, he tried to excuse himself to his room, but he was halted.

"Stay, boy. Let's all talk in the sitting room for a spell." His father suggested, and Jean halted, dread washing over all the good-food feelings dinner had given him. But, knowing better than to disobey, he followed his mother and father into the parlor, planting himself in one of the uncomfortable but stylish chairs his father insisted were in good taste.

His mother took a seat next to his father on the matching loveseat, and she reached for her needlework, getting to work while Joan cleared his throat.

Instead of talking, though, he set to work on lighting his pipe, inhaling the smoke a few times before finally picking his topic for the evening.

"Those damn idiots are trying to tell us how to run the town again." He seethed, and Jean perked up. This was one of the only things he and his father ever agreed on.

"Are they trying to sell here again?" He wondered, and Joan nodded.

"I've told the bastards to kindly take their damnable slave trade elsewhere, but they don't listen to me. Only the mayor can make them listen, and the man hasn't got any backbone or political skill to speak of." Joan elaborated, taking another puff of his tobacco. "I only barely managed to stop them on their way into town this morning."

Jean frowned, and his mother tutted.

"Isn't the mayor against it too, though?" Jean recalled, and Joan nodded.

"Of course he is. But the man has about as much courage as a wild rabbit." He complained. Jean was about to comment again, but Joan cut him off. "Too pathetic to even run those damned Pagans out of town." He hissed.

Jean's vision got a little blurry, and he deflated. Usually he'd blindly agree with his father's opinion. It was better than trying to argue his own. But…

_Lie! _

"I-I don't know…" He began, swallowing.

_LIE!_

"They've never hurt anyone or anything." He mumbled.

It was silent for a moment, and then Jean could practically feel his father's claws sinking into him.

"What was that, boy? Are you defending those witches?" Joan demanded. Jean winced, not having heard them called witches in a while. It was a bold accusation, especially considering the stories from Salem had only recently stopped coming their way.

_Keep your mouth shut. Don't answer!_

"T-They… They aren't…" He whispered, but he didn't get to finish.

"Dear Lord, boy! Has Satan gotten to you too?" Joan snarled, and Jean did everything in his power to sink into the chair, to make himself small.

"N-No." He stuttered, finally able to get his words to cooperate with his mind. "I just…"

"Just what? Out with it!" His father bellowed.

Jean could feel his eyes stinging, his limbs already curling in towards his body, as if they were anticipating a blow, as if they knew they would be needed for protection.

He couldn't think of anything else to say. Nothing that wouldn't induce a beating, anyway. So he simply remained quiet, trembling minutely, eyes darting to his father's waist and back to the floor a few times. He'd managed to avoid punishment for a record amount of time. Had his luck run out?

To his relief, Joan simply scoffed, refilling his pipe and lighting it again.

Some of the tension in the room dissolved, and it seemed to Jean like he could breathe again, though he couldn't remember when he'd stopped in the first place. Regardless, he did his best to make vague comments until he was finally excused to go up to his room for the night.

Once he was in his room, the door shut and all of the tension gone, he stripped away his clothes and slipped into bed, looking up at his headboard to check that the carnation was still there. He allowed himself a small smile when it was, and he let his eyes close, content to know that he'd escaped a beating, and would be seeing Marco in the morning. Maybe he'd even have time to hold his hand for a bit before he had to report to Levi.

Only if he got to sleep soon enough to wake up early.

And so he did.

A/N: A lot of people were interested in Joan, to my surprise. Usually antagonists are mostly just hated and not thought of beyond that. But I'm glad that you're all interested in his dimensions, even if they aren't exactly good ones. There will be more development with him, but you can see some in this chapter already, or at least, so I hope.

I'd like to once again thank you all for all of the wonderful feedback. I can never mention enough how happy it makes me to see your lengthy comments, and I'm always happy when you guys actually want to talk about things. Like, seriously, I'm happy to hear your thoughts and interpretations, and I love to give you mine as well.

You've truly been a wonderful readership so far, and I'm lucky to have you guys. Someone's even working on fanart for me at the moment, and I'm super excited about it! It's looking amazing so far! I'll be sure to post a link when it's finished.

I'm tracking the tag "fic wwfg" over on tumblr, so if there's anything you want me to see, post it there.

Anyway, I have some things to do, so I'll call it a day here. Thank you for reading, and feedback is always appreciated. Until the next update!

KuroRiya  
九六りや 


	8. Hemlock

It dawned on Jean one day, while they were laying in their meadow, fingers laced and skin sun-warmed, that no one ever bothered them in the meadow.

"Marco?" He called softly, earning a quiet noise from the other boy to show he was listening. "Why are we the only ones that ever come out here?" He wondered. Marco rolled over, letting go of Jean's hand so that he could prop himself up on his side. But his other hand was quick to cover Jean's, squeezing softly.

"This is my space." He replied easily, as if Jean should understand. But he didn't. Marco smiled. "We all have somewhere that we love to be, and we sort of claim it as our own, in a way." He elaborated.

"Oh… Sort of like a bedroom?" Jean offered. Marco's eyes lit up, and he nodded.

"Exactly! There are so many of us that none of us have our own rooms." He explained. Jean's own eyes only got wider.

"R-Really?" He prompted, and Marco nodded again, thumb tracing gentle circles over the back of Jean's hand.

"I share my room with two of my brothers." He admitted. Jean gaped. "It's really not that bad. But the lack of privacy does start to get to us sometimes. So we all have a place that we go to when we want to be alone. This is mine." He continued. Jean looked around, wondering exactly how much of the meadow was 'Marco's'.

"That's not to say that no one is allowed out here, they just know that if I'm out here, I don't want to be bothered." He added.

"Oh." Was all Jean could think to reply. It amazed him how well the Bodts functioned as a family. Even though there were so many of them, they somehow managed to get by, and to be generally cheerful. He'd met a few of Marco's siblings in the time that they'd been spending together. And with the exception of shy little Nardo, they'd been mostly friendly and outgoing people.

If he had so many siblings, he'd probably hate them all. He'd probably yell at them all the time. Especially if he had to share his room. He couldn't even imagine not having a place to isolate himself when he needed to.

But the Bodts, despite their numbers and their tight quarters, appeared to get along well. They all knew their responsibilities and took care of them without complaint. And they worked well around each other. Even if they were working in a small space at the same time, they could somehow maneuver around each other wordlessly. Jean had already been impressed by it a few times.

Regardless, he was glad that they all knew not to snoop around when he and Marco spent time among all the grass and flowers. He was comforted all over again by their little slice of privacy, glad they had a place to be together without having to worry about what people saw or what they'd say.

He was even more thankful for it when Marco tactfully scooted closer, hand leaving Jean's only to place itself on his waist instead. Jean's breath hitched.

Marco was so close now. He could smell him. Cinnamon and dirt and sweat and flowers. He smelled like life. Jean wondered what his own scent was like. No expensive cologne could make him smell half as good as Marco did.

He knew he should have been afraid. And maybe, in a couple hours when he was on his way home, maybe the panic would set in. Maybe he'd realize what a sinner he was, how damned he was. But in that moment, he couldn't stop himself from burying his nose in the collar of Marco's shirt. He couldn't stop himself from lifting one of his arms and draping it over Marco's waist in turn.

The last time he'd felt so pleasantly content to be in someone's arms had been when he was very little. Small enough that his father didn't whip him for cuddling with his mother. It had been so many years since he'd felt a true embrace. He'd get a hug from his mother on occasion, when they thought they could get away with it, and a stiff half-hug from visiting relatives that he didn't really know.

But Marco was warm. Jean could tell that Marco meant so many things with just the small gesture. It wasn't stiff, it wasn't unbearable. It was just comfortable, easy, and warm. The good kind of warm, not the stifling, mid-july, heaven-take-me-now sort of warm. No. Jean wished he didn't have to go home that night. Even the evening chill would be nothing as long as he was cradled close to Marco, so close he could hear his heart beating in his chest.

So comfortable was he, surrounded and enveloped in everything that Marco was, that he'd dozed off at some point, only waking when he felt something insistently poking at his nose. He tried to ignore it, but eventually the sensation elicited a sneeze, and his eyes blinked open wearily afterwards, shooting a narrow-eyed glare in Marco's direction.

The other boy gave him a stunning grin, tactfully placing a flower against his cheek. Jean blinked, shaking his head till it fell off. Then he sat up, realizing too late that Marco had nearly covered him in different flowers, and they all fell into his lap as he righted himself.

"Is this what you did while I was asleep?" Jean wondered, voice a bit gravelly from his nap. Marco giggled, nodding.

"You looked really nice." He offered, picking a few petals out of Jean's sandy colored hair. Jean scoffed, laying back down, ignoring the minute weight of all the plants in his lap.

"What are all of these?" He inquired, picking one of the blooms up and twisting the stem between his fingers. Marco got settled next to him, grabbing one of the flowers for himself, prodding gently at its petals.

"That one is gardenia." He replied, nodding to the one in Jean's hand, smiling. "These are lobelia."

Jean nodded, looking at the pretty purple flowers. Where had Marco found all of these? He'd never seen them before.

Marco's face sobered as he picked up the last kind, looking it over, his lips pulling into just the smallest of frowns.

"And this… This is hemlock." He said.

Jean looked at it, wondering why it'd garnered that reaction from Marco. If he didn't like the flower, then why on earth had he picked it? The name sounded sort of familiar though.

"Just… Don't take this home. Or eat it." Marco warned. "It's poisonous." He added.

Jean yelped, stumbling to his feet and hastily brushing all of the flowers off, hemlock, lobelia, gardenia and all. Marco watched him, not commenting. That would explain why he'd heard the name before.

"Why on earth would you cover me in poisonous flowers?" Jean demanded, suddenly feeling very awake and very concerned. Had Marco lost his mind? Marco only smiled softly.

"Only the hemlock is poisonous, and it won't hurt you, as long as you don't eat it." He promised, tucking it behind his ear as if to prove a point. Jean blinked, looking down at the boy incredulously for a moment, then he settled back down with a sigh.

"Honestly," he breathed, picking a few of the flowers up, feeling bad for knocking them all to the ground. "You couldn't pick normal flowers?" He asked, knowing that it would go unanswered. And, he realized, the answer was obvious.

Marco couldn't pick normal flowers, because flowers spoke to Marco. It was like a language that Jean didn't know, but spoke volumes to Marco. He'd bet that Marco could have a whole conversation spoken only with blooms. In fact, he was pretty sure that was exactly what was happening now. But he didn't speak in the same tongue, so he couldn't decipher what the boy was telling him, and wouldn't know unless he found a translator.

He made sure to commit the names to memory, just in case he ever did find anyone who knew. Gardenia, lobelia, hemlock. He could only hope he'd remember that.

Marco had picked poison flowers because they meant something important enough to him to accept that risk. That only had Jean burning with even more curiosity, and he decided he'd make a point of asking people around town.

In the meantime, though, he needed to get home. Marco walked him to the fence, fingers brushing for only a moment in what they both secretly wished could have been a prolonged gesture. Before Jean could go, Marco grabbed his waistcoat, carefully sliding a stem into one of the buttonholes. This one was white, resembling a rose, so… Gardenia. Jean was proud to have remembered. And glad it wasn't poisonous.

He offered the other boy a smile, then a short wave, and was on his way home. The feeling of Marco's heavy arms still lingered on his ribs, as if his body itself was recalling it, but it wasn't a bad feeling. And the panic he thought he'd feel hadn't reared its head yet, thankfully. It probably would when he saw Joan, but that hopefully wasn't for another hour or two. Maybe he could remain this content until then.

He was happy to find his father nowhere within sight upon getting home. But his mother cut into his glee, requesting that he make a trip to the market to get some groceries she needed. He grumbled, but did as he was told, turning around mere seconds after coming through the door and heading for the main street.

His home wasn't far away, so he was in the market soon enough, looking down at the short list his mother had written for him. He started with the vegetables, then went for the meat. He was talking with the girl behind the counter, having explained what he needed to her father. He'd talked to her a few times, when she wasn't busy eating. Her name was Sasha, if he remembered correctly. They were an odd family, but excellent hunters and butchers, so no one bothered them too much.

In the middle of something she was saying, she stopped, eyes dropping to Jean's chest. Finding it strange and a mite unsettling, Jean followed her gaze, realizing he'd never taken the flower out of his buttonhole. Before he had a chance to scramble to do so, Sasha gave him a coy smile.

"Looks like someone's got himself an admirer." She laughed. He flushed, biting his lip, seeing no real point in taking the flower out now. "That's what gardenia means, anyway." She added.

Jean froze, looking at her in wonder.

"Wait, you know what flowers mean?" He questioned, and though obviously taken aback by his sudden interest, she nodded.

"We used to live out in the woods, so I had to learn about plants anyway. Mama taught me what they meant." She explained. Now Jean was excited.

"Do you know them all?" He demanded.

The poor girl was obviously bewildered, and probably worried about Jean's mental state, but she didn't say anything on that matter.

"I know quite a few." She offered with a shrug.

"Alright, then what does lobelia mean?" He asked, visualizing the purple flowers. She snickered, covering her mouth with her hand. Jean quirked a brow. "What?"

"Ah, sorry. Someone really gave you lobelia?" She wondered. He huffed, nodding. She only snorted once more. "Well… Whoever they are, they were calling you arrogant." She giggled.

Jean frowned, brows knitting. Arrogant? Marco was calling him arrogant? Well, alright, maybe that was fair. And, knowing Marco, he didn't actually see it as a bad quality. The boy was too sweet to see anything as a bad quality.

Well, that was two out of three. Now for the poisonous one.

"Fine. What about… He… Headlock?" He tried. The girl before him was clearly confused, and he racked his mind again, hoping to recall the proper word.

"Um… He… Heylock… Hew… Henlock?" He tried. Still, her face remained uncertain. Then it seemed to dawn on her, and her eyebrows shot up towards her hairline.

"Hemlock?" She guessed. Jean nodded quickly, glad she'd known what he meant. But then he became concerned, for her face fell to one of worry. She bit her lip for a long while, looking about.

"They… Gave you hemlock?" She inquired. Again, he nodded.

"Yes. I know it's poisonous, but only if you eat it. I just want to know what it means." He said, hoping to quell any fears she might have had. But her face only fell further.

"I…" She stopped, worrying her lip again.

Now Jean was getting worried. He wished she'd just spit it out already, but she began fidgeting instead of answering.

"I… I really don't think… If she really gave you Hemlock…" She trailed, finally looking back up at him. "Are all of these really from the same person?" She asked.

"Yes. Daffodils, day lilies, and a carnation too." He added.

"Well…" She began, expression unchanged. "It seems that she likes you quite a bit." She said, voice careful. "But… She's also scared of… Um…"

As if the answer to her prayers, her father returned with what Jean had asked for. Since he didn't want to be on the butcher's bad side, he decided he'd leave it at that. He still shot the girl a confused look, but she had clearly resolved not to say anything else on the matter.

Jean finished his shopping, the girl's sudden discomfort and avoidance of the topic settling discomfort deep in his stomach, the pleasant butterflies he normally had after leaving Marco being overtaken by truly concerned ones. Why had she reacted like that? Did hemlock mean something bad? And if it did, why would Marco have given it to him?

When he got home, he sat the groceries on the table, going up to his room to replace the wilted Carnation on his headboard with the Gardenia, then he laid out on his bed, staring up at the ceiling above. If only answers to his questions were written there.

He didn't come out of his room until he was called for dinner, and he tried to get through it as quickly as he could, making the excuse that he wasn't feeling very well to make sure he wouldn't have to sit in the parlor and listen to his father. It wasn't a lie, really. He wasn't feeling well. It was just stretching the truth.

When he got into bed after washing off and putting on a shirt, the flower fell from his headboard, hitting him in the face. He sighed, picking it up and holding it at length, simply staring at the white petals for several minutes.

What an odd mix of flowers he'd received this time. An admirer was a good thing. Being called arrogant wasn't exactly an insult to him, not anymore. He'd been raised to be that way, and he knew it to be true, so it didn't sting. It was just an observation. And then… Hemlock. He didn't know what it was, but it was bad. Why? What was Marco telling him?

Maybe he'd never know. Marco wasn't going to tell him, and clearly Sasha wasn't either. He was too scared to ask his mother, so he was stuck in this frustrating state of not knowing. It was something he'd just have to get used to. That, or he'd have to start taking lessons.

He'd settle for not knowing. Perhaps it was for the best.

A/N: Man, this one was tough, mostly just because I'm so sleepy. Spanish class has me pretty haggard. But here's the next chapter, my lovely readers. I'm glad to hear that you're all so enraptured. That truly means so much to me. I can't even describe to you. I'm still super excited about this story, which is surprising, because I usually lose interest after a certain point. But this one keeps me coming back.

To be honest, I usually blabber at you guys a lot more, but I think I need to get to sleep. I'm surprisingly tired. Just a reminder; You can tag anything related to this story with fic wwfg, and I will see it. There's already a fanart in there, thanks to the lovely flamerebel! And Illien-Chan over on Devi is working on one too! I'm soooo excited! Thanks much to those guys, seriously.

I'll do links next time, promise. But for now, I must find my bed. Till next time~!

KuroRiya  
九六りや


	9. Ragged Robin

Jean had never paid Levi much mind. Well, no more mind than he was due; Jean treated him as his master, as any good apprentice would. But beyond that working relationship, he didn't think about the man much.

In fact, he didn't really know much about him. He knew that he was a very strange, intimidating man, despite his stature. There was just something about him that kept others out of his business. No one ever really asked about him, they just quietly speculated among themselves. It seemed almost ironic, considering the man's profession, but it was almost fair to say he was the most mysterious figure in town.

Jean came to find out why, much sooner than he had anticipated.

He'd worked harder than usual in a bid to finish earlier. And he had, much to his delight. It was important that Levi let him go home early. For once, it was him that was going to give Marco a gift. But he had to make sure he had enough time to work up the nerve to take it out of his bag in the first place.

Luckily, Levi waved his hand dismissively towards the door a full two hours early, and Jean said his goodbye, quickly taking his leave. So glad was he that he entirely forgot his bag, only realizing when he was in sight of Marco's fence. With a low groan, he turned on his heel, changing his pace from one of leisure, to a near-run. Now he was running behind.

He let himself in when he reached the familiar post house, looking about the small workspace for a moment before locating the forsaken object. After picking it up, he checked the contents, then shouldered the bag, turning around and walking back towards the door.

It was a sound that halted him. It came from the other room, where Levi's office of sorts was. The door to it was just barely cracked, like someone had attempted to close it, but had been too distracted to make sure it actually latched. Jean's eyes darted that way, recognizing Levi's voice. But the sound it had made was confusing. Was he hurt? Frustrated? It was so hard to understand Levi.

Deciding he needed to check, just in case something horrible was happening to his employer, Jean tip-toed over, pushing the door just enough that he could peer through.

He wished he hadn't.

He didn't recognize the other man, at least, not from behind. But he recognized the act. After all, he'd been taught that it was a terrible sin. One of the worst. He'd know it even at just a glance. But he received more than a glance, and knew he'd never be able to look at Levi again without seeing him lain out across his desk, naked and moaning.

It was sinful, the very definition, and it frightened Jean to his core. His mind knew it was wrong, yet he couldn't bring himself to hate, and that was the most frightful thing he could imagine. No matter what he told himself, he'd always come back to the conclusion that Levi must have loved the man. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't seem to convince himself that the love the two men must have shared was incorrect.

He bolted from the building, sprinting for Marco's house blindly, not stopping even for a moment, not even to explain himself to obviously concerned neighbors. By the time he'd leapt over the fence and raced to the meadow, his heart was pounding so loud in his ears that he barely heard Marco call his name.

The freckled boy wore his concern on his face, sitting up from where he'd been staring up at the clouds, looking up at Jean instead. He tried to read the expression, tried to understand what was going on beyond the obvious panic.

Before he had a chance to get very far, though, Jean collapsed next to him, trembling as he tried to make himself small. Marco frowned, pausing for just a moment before inching closer, moving slowly as he pulled Jean against him, practically cradling the other in his arms.

He didn't speak for a long time, just letting Jean calm down in hopes that he'd be ready to talk afterwards. He instead offered comfort with gentle touches, petting Jean's hair and embracing him tightly. Not until his shaking had subsided did Marco even bother with words.

"Jean," He began, feeling the one in question wince at the sound of his own name. Marco pressed on though.

"What happened?" He asked, returning to carding his fingers through Jean's sandy hair, ignoring the sweat that had begun to gather at his scalp.

Jean didn't respond, merely shaking his head. But he remained against Marco's chest, his fingers eventually coming up to twist in Marco's shirt. So he waited again, gently rocking them back and forth until Jean pulled away. His eyes were red-rimmed with tears he hadn't cried, but it was proof enough that he was upset by whatever had happened.

"Jean." Marco said, voice low. He didn't say anything else, and that in itself was a comfort of sorts.

It was nearly an hour before Jean could speak, and even then, it was a slow, very broken conversation. Several times Jean would find himself unable to find the right words. But once he'd explained what he'd seen, he felt a lot better. Especially when Marco just nodded, reaching out and gently pulled Jean along as he lay down in the grass. It was a shaky motion, but Jean eventually let his head fall against Marco's chest, ear pressed against him, listening to the beating of his heart. It was slow, rhythmic, and it helped him steady his thoughts.

"What about what you saw scared you?" Marco asked after a long lull of silence. Jean's eyes flicked upwards, then back down at the grass. He took a deep breath of Marco's smell, letting the earthy scent dull his lingering panic.

"I…" He began, thinking on it for a moment. "I don't know." He admitted. But Marco shook his head, hand coming to dance across Jean's back, rubbing at a few tense spots that he found.

"You do know." He reprimanded, waiting patiently for Jean to think through it again.

And so, Jean did. Marco didn't say a word while he tried to find the words for his emotions. He'd never really been very eloquent, at least not in regards to what he felt. He'd been taught, from a very young age, that no one cared or wanted to hear it.

But Marco wanted to hear it.

"I suppose… It scared me because… I didn't…" He trailed off, searching again for the words he thought he'd found. "I didn't… Hate them." He finally managed. Marco didn't reply, and Jean didn't elaborate.

"Jean, could you explain what you mean?" Marco finally questioned. Jean swallowed, able to follow the path as every muscle in his throat worked to get it down.

"…I know that I'm supposed to hate them. What they were doing… It's a sin!" He reasoned. "I know that I should be angry at them, and that I should be disgusted. But…"

He seemed unable to finish, again, and Marco squeezed him in something akin to an embrace.

"But?" He prompted. Jean's toes curled.

"But… I… I don't." He admitted. "I don't hate them. And I… Well, I know it's wrong. But it doesn't really feel like it is." He added. Marco nodded.

"And that scares you?" He inquired. Jean nodded, the motion shaky.

"Shouldn't it?" He asked. Marco's hand paused against his back, but quickly returned to its patterns.

"Well, Jean, that's up to you." Marco finally replied, sending a new wave of confusion coursing through the paler boy. "According to what your religion teaches, yes. What you saw is wrong." He admitted. Jean felt something cold drip into his heart, and the chill seemed to seep into his blood. Never in a lifetime would he anticipate a response like that from Marco.

"But," the freckled teen continued. "That's only one way of thinking." He added. Jean actually felt like he could sigh in relief. This was the part that he needed to hear. "I'm sure you know, but yours is not the only religion in the world. There are almost as many different beliefs as there are stars in the sky. Each of those religions has a different way of seeing things. And even people within and without of the different religions can have entirely different ways of interpreting different situations and events." He continued.

Jean shifted so he could look up at Marco, but the other had his eyes on the sky again. Still, Jean's gaze lingered.

"As far as I'm concerned, they're free to do as they please. It's their business. Beyond that, I believe that love, in any form, is beautiful, and it should be treasured." Marco explained. Jean stiffened. He'd never heard Marco's opinion on the matter, but it was positively blasphemous. Yet it sounded so innocent, so reasonable.

"Not everyone in my family agrees. My parents grow lax as they age, but some of my older siblings wouldn't be very happy about my views. They would respect my opinions, but they'd also make theirs known." He clarified, finally looking at Jean. "The difference between me, and you, is this: My family would still love me, even if I told them." He said.

Jean had to calculate the meaning. He would have been mad about what Marco had insinuated, but he couldn't be. He knew it was true.

If he told his father that he thought that sodomy was acceptable, he'd likely be thrashed within an inch of his life. Or maybe Joan wouldn't stop there. Even if he did, chances were that he'd be locked up in his room, lest he attempt to spew such profanity again, in public. Or he'd be sent away. Regardless, the outcome wouldn't be good, in any sense.

If Joan even caught wind of the position that Jean was in at that exact moment, he'd likely leave enough bruises to have Jean sore for a few weeks. But he couldn't bring himself to pull away from Marco, too comfortable enveloped in his warmth and scent. It was enough to keep his fears at bay, at least for the time being.

After several minutes of quiet, Marco sat up, hefting Jean up with him. He patted the smaller boy's back softly, other hand coming up to brush some grass out of Jean's hair.

"My mother made some jumbles." He murmured, standing up. He offered Jean a hand, which the other took, standing up a little wobbly. "Would you like some?" He wondered.

Jean realized that he'd never eaten anything that came out of the Bodt house. It seemed like some unspoken boundary that he hadn't been ready to cross. But after all the emotions he'd been forced to deal with, sweets sounded heavenly.

He nodded, following behind Marco towards the house. But he stopped just short of the door. Marco waited a moment, as if to see if Jean would follow, then disappeared inside, coming back out a few minutes later with several of the promised treats in hand, and a cup of milk.

They went around to the other side of the house, sitting with their backs against the wall, and Marco passed most of the cookies to Jean, who got to work stuffing them into his mouth. His mother had only made jumbles once, and then his father had proclaimed them poor man's sweets, and she hadn't made them since.

But, compared to the bland taste of macaroons, Jean much preferred these. They were obviously sweetened with something, probably honey. He'd already had two before he remembered the milk, taking it when Marco handed it to him. He took a little drink, then handed it back, returning to the sweets while Marco had his turn with the milk.

If it had been anyone else, Jean would have commented on sharing the milk. He hadn't shared a cup since he was young. But he found he didn't really mind, if it was Marco.

After finishing the snack, Jean found himself in better spirits. He was still a little bothered about what had transpired, but he felt better after talking with Marco, and the food was just enough to give him the feeling of pleasant fullness.

Marco took the empty cup back into the house, then he took Jean's hand, and they returned to the meadow, walking past where they usually spent time, sitting on the back fence instead. Jean could barely see the house from this distance, which was just as well.

They stared at the sky for a while, Marco still holding onto Jean's hand, their fingers carefully laced. Then Jean remembered the entire reason for all of the day's misfortunes.

"Oh." He breathed, extracting himself from Marco and walking back to where they'd been laying earlier. He found his bag and carried it back to where Marco was waiting. "I forgot. I brought you something."

Marco looked down at the bag, then up at Jean.

"You didn't have to." He promised with a small smile. Jean shook his head.

"You're always giving me things, so now let me try to return the favor." He requested, opening the bag. His nerves were, of course, acting up. But he realized that if he didn't just get it over with, he'd probably end up postponing it indefinitely. Trying not to let himself freeze up, he fished around in the bag until his fingers encountered what he was looking for.

He pulled, and the fabric slid out without too much fuss. Marco looked at it with surprise, at first not recognizing the article. Then his eyes went wide.

"Jean, I can't-" He began, but Jean was having none of it.

"It's too big for me anyway." He argued, thrusting the shirt into Marco's hands. "It's been in my chest for ages, and I haven't been able to use it. And I know you wear the same one every day. It isn't costing me anything to give it to you, so please take it." He insisted.

Marco pursed his lips, fingers subconsciously testing the fabric. It was higher quality than he'd ever even been allowed to look at.

"I really-" He started. Jean held his hand up, silencing him again.

"If you don't take it, I'm burning it." He threatened.

Admitting defeat, Marco carefully folded the shirt, looking down at it almost reverently as his fingers trailed over it again. Jean smiled, closing his bag and letting it fall to the ground. He put the shirt on top of it, seeing as Marco was apparently reluctant to put it on the ground.

"You have to wear it." Jean warned. "Don't just put it away or something. That's not what shirts are for."

Marco pouted. He actually pouted. Jean had never seen that expression before, but he quickly decided it was one of his favorites. It made him look younger than he'd ever seemed.

Jean laughed, sliding down until he was in the grass again, pressing his back against the fence for support. Marco followed, somehow managing to put his hand over Jean's without even looking down. Jean turned his hand over so that he could fill the spaces between Marco's fingers with his own, and his head tilted slowly until it came to rest against Marco's shoulder.

They watched a breeze dance through the grass and wildflowers, imitating the motions of waves, then Jean felt a hand at his jaw. It moved slow, carefully angling his head up until he was looking into brown eyes. He had enough time to pick out seven different colors before his fear sank in and he pulled away, still looking into those eyes from a greater distance.

He was glad that Marco didn't seem hurt by the rebuke. His expression really didn't change, he simply held Jean's gaze. It was almost painful how slowly he moved closer. Jean could count several seconds for each centimeter, but his mind raced too fast for him to make sense of what exactly he was doing, what Marco was doing.

Brown eyes held amber until Marco's lashes, after fluttering for a moment, closed. Jean snapped out of his reverie, but a second too late. Already Marco's lips were pressed to his.

The kiss was light, short, barely more than a small peck. Each motion was slow, big, leaving Jean room to flinch away and flee. But, even as his stomach churned with unease, and his mind screamed at him to leave and never return, his lips wouldn't shy away from the other's, not the second, third, or fourth time they met.

When it became apparent that Jean wasn't going to run, or that he was too frozen in fear to even do that, Marco moved closer, gently circling his arms around Jean's waist, letting his hands rest against his hip. Jean jumped just a little, his breath more of a shudder as he forced himself to stay still as Marco kissed him again.

It felt nice, having barely-chapped lips pressed against his own. It made his heart race, and left his mind so foggy that he had a hard time paying much mind to his anxiety. Still, he knew, almost instinctually, that he was doing something very wrong. As much as he wanted to slot his lips against Marco's, as right as it seemed, he knew he wasn't supposed to.

What if someone saw? What if Joan saw? They were outside, in broad daylight. Anyone had a chance of seeing.

But then, no one had seen them before. The meadow had always been a sanctuary, and he knew, somewhere deep down, that it was still serving that purpose. He knew his mind was desperately trying to think of reasons why he shouldn't be closing his eyes, why he shouldn't be clinging to Marco's shirt and craning his neck. But it was too late for him anyway.

It was clear that he wanted to, and that in itself was enough to damn him. What more damage could be done by indulging? He was already too far gone to bother with it anymore.

Marco pulled away just as Jean decided that he didn't care anymore, and he made a noise as he lunged forward to steal another kiss. Marco smiled, hands cupping Jean's face as they moved their lips together again for a moment. And, even when he pulled away again, they remained there, forcing Jean to look at him. But Jean was done with shying away.

Eventually, Marco let his hands fall, and he reached for Jean's far hand, lacing it with his own. The other wrapped around Jean's hip, pulling him closer, close enough that Jean could feel Marco's heart pounding in his chest, and he again let it sooth him, let it calm his thoughts.

And, when the sun began its descent, he got up and walked home, steps sure, even as he passed Joan smoking in the parlor. Even as he sat to dinner, and listened to Joan commenting on the wickedness of the town. Even as he lay in bed, hand reaching up for the flower he'd left, fingers brushing the soft petals just before he let the sounds of crickets and frogs drifting in from the window lull him to sleep.

And when he got up the next day to go to work, he faced Levi with a new sense of camaraderie and understanding, albeit unbeknownst to his employer. All he thought about all day while he organized documents was how much he was looking forward to kissing Marco again.

Damned or not, he was tired of being scared.

A/N: I have lost any self-control I might have had in regards to this story. It hasn't even been a full four days since I updated, but gosh, I can't stop. Chapter 17 is intense, and now I just want to get to it! But this chapter is definitely important too, if you guys can't tell. (I'm sure you all noticed)

This chapter does mark a huge step forward for our two boys, but it actually sets a lot of other things in motion as well. You'll know what I'm talking about a few chapters down the road, I promise. I'll leave it at that.

For a small update in regards to me, personally; I got a new job! It's still in the food industry, but I'll be making about double what I have been. It might be 40 hours, but that's definitely worth a cushy lifestyle. I'll be able to afford things! I can buy food! As long as I pass the physical exam, which is on Tuesday, the job is mine. And I should, hopefully, not have any trouble with the exam.

The extra money would seriously help with the whole living on my own thing. And the travel goals. I might actually get to go to Italy next spring! Fingers crossed on that one.

Alright, so, I mentioned some fanart last time, but was too tired to give you guys a way to find it. As I'm sure you all are aware, though, FF won't let me post a link, so the best way you can get to it would just be to search the tag 'fic wwfg' on tumblr. It should come up, pretty quick too. There's not much in the tag at the moment, unfortunately.

If there's anything that you want me to see in regards to this story, be it art, questions, concerns, or just some feels you're having, you can tag it there and I will see it!

Alright, I'm going to try to accomplish something else before my shift, so I bid you farewell for now! Thank you guys, as always, for reading and for all of the feedback. You really keep me going, so thank you for that.

KuroRiya  
九六りや


	10. Ambrosia

Jean sort of started to understand why people made such a big deal about kissing. He'd never really comprehended why everyone else his age went to the trouble of sneaking around in order to indulge with whoever they fancied. But, as soon as he was able to do it with Marco without the risk of a small panic attack, he found he very much enjoyed it.

Marco was always warm in his arms, and always happy to oblige. He never said anything. He didn't ridicule Jean for being unsure about the whole thing, for letting his fear linger though he'd promised himself he'd leave it behind. He wasn't smug that he'd won Jean's affections. He didn't point out that Jean was damned now, that he was directly going against his own religion.

No, he'd just stop whatever he was doing, carefully snake his hands around Jean's waist, and hold him just long enough for them to press their lips together. Then he'd let go, and get back to work, almost as if it hadn't happened. But the wave of nervous happiness that Jean felt afterwards made sure he knew that he never imagined it.

It helped his courage a lot that he was met with no repercussions. Ever since he'd found his vase of lilies smashed below his window, he'd been wary that Joan knew more than he let on. Yet, Jean was getting so brave as to kiss Marco at the gate, albeit after looking both ways to make sure that no one was watching. And despite this, Joan never appeared to be any the wiser. He continued smoking in the parlor, continued complaining about things that weren't going as he wanted them to over dinner, continued yanking him out of bed way too early on Sunday to go to church.

Nothing changed.

And that was what gave Jean the confidence he needed to lay against Marco's chest in the late-afternoon sunshine, frequently craning his neck to steal kisses. It seemed that Marco always knew exactly when Jean wanted one, for he would always turn down just in time to catch the other male's lips with his own. Then he'd simply go back to staring at the clouds, like he always did.

"Do you talk to clouds too?" Jean wondered, realizing too little too late that his question most likely seemed out of place to someone who wasn't following his train of thought. But Marco took it in stride.

"No, not really. There are a few types of fortune-telling that rely on clouds, but I'm not much interested in fortune-telling." He replied. "Clouds are simply nice to look at."

Jean nodded, glancing up that way as well. They were indeed a nice sight to behold.

"Don't you ever bore of them?" He asked, and Marco smiled wryly.

"That's like asking me if I ever bore of you." He said, and Jean scowled.

"I'm only as interesting as clouds?" He demanded. Marco's chest rumbled with laughter as answer.

Jean opted to let it go, instead busying himself with finding Marco's hand and lacing their fingers. He liked the way that Marco's calluses felt against his own scrawny fingers. But his own hands were starting to get sturdy as well, from all the work he helped Marco with in his spare time. Of course, it wasn't even half as laborious, but he'd manhandled a bit of hay since he'd begun spending time with the other boy. Luckily he could just chalk it up to new writing utensils the few times his mother had mentioned them.

Marco's fingers fit easily with his, now used to the gesture. It was almost as if their fingers were the perfect size, no space left between the digits, but nor was it an uncomfortable squeeze. It made Jean smile for reasons he wasn't even ready to start considering. And it almost seemed as if Marco had been more prepared to deal with whatever they'd become before it even began.

When the thought occurred to him, he realized how accurate that actually was. It felt like Marco had somehow foreseen that they would end up like this. He shuffled a bit to look up at Marco. The other seemed to sense his gaze, and he looked down at almost the same time. Jean worried his lip.

"…You knew." He breathed. Marco blinked, processing the words for just a moment, then he smiled.

"I did." He admitted, as if he knew exactly what Jean was talking about without even the smallest bit of explanation. And he did, Jean realized.

Jean's brows furrowed, and he busied himself with finding each freckle on Marco's face as he thought. When had Marco figured it out?

"How long have you known?" He finally managed to demand, looking Marco in the eye seriously. The other only closed his own eyes, his easy smile still in place.

"Always." He replied.

Jean thought that over for a while. Always? Did that mean since the day they'd met? Since the day they first existed at the same time? And beyond that…

"How?"

At this, Marco paused, smile falling a bit. Jean recognized the face he made, brows knitted and bottom lip between his teeth, as Marco's nervous face. He usually only saw it when Marco wasn't sure if what he said would bother Jean or not. It was the face he wore when he said the most blasphemous of things.

The darker boy took a deep breath, finally returning his gaze to Jean, but only for a moment before it was stolen away by some wildflowers growing nearby.

"You keep saying that I talk to flowers." He began, smiling fondly at the blooms.

"Maybe because you always tell me that they have a lot to say." Jean defended. Marco looked back at him.

"Well, I don't have conversations with them. At least, not two-sided ones. The reason I can identify each as a certain meaning is because of their shape and their color. That's what sets flowers apart, after all." He continued. Jean quirked a brow, considering the fact that Marco was avoiding his question. But he opted to see where this train of conversation was going. Maybe it really did tie in somehow.

"Humans are a lot like flowers. Flowers might not be able to think or feel deeply, nor can they move of their own accord. But each one is different, and those small differences in shape and color can change the interpretation greatly. Humans are like that." He offered.

Jean felt more confused than he had when Marco started, but he tried to keep up.

"Their shape and color matters?" He tried. Marco allowed himself a small chuckle.

"Well, Jean, I see the world a lot differently than you do. I'm not the only one, but I suppose it would be hard to find someone else like me around here. Anybody could be, even you could be, if only they were open to seeing things differently."

If Jean was confused before, he was entirely lost at that point.

"Um, how is the way you see the world different from the way I do?" He wondered. Marco was silent for a long time, watching one cloud in particular crawl across the vast blueness of the sky. When he finally looked back at Jean, it was with hesitation.

"I still see all the things you do. I just see more. Each… Each person has their own color, their own shape. I'm not sure exactly what to call what I see. I've heard it called a lot of things; Auras, souls… Regardless, I've taught myself how to read them. Some colors go well together, some shapes just can't fit. Sometimes I can be a bit off, but I've gotten to the point that I have a general idea about anyone I see." He described.

Jean sat up, looking at the freckled boy in awe, and, if he was being honest, fear. What was he on about? Seeing people's souls? That wasn't possible. That sounded like magic. Until just then, Marco had seemed entirely normal, but if he was telling the truth about what he saw… Could he really be a witch? Jean hadn't even humored the thought in so long that he'd almost forgotten what the family was suspected of. Now it was coming back to him much faster than he was prepared to deal with.

He tried to remain calm. Hadn't he already committed to this, to Marco? He was already in the middle of an unforgivable sin, did it really matter that he was hearing this? After all, damnation remains damnation, regardless of the offense. That was something of a pessimistic comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

Marco seemed to notice his internal strife, and he sat up, slowly inching closer until he could easily take Jean's hand again.

"That's how I knew that you and Mikasa wouldn't end up together." He offered softly. "Though the color… Well, I call it color, but it's more of a feeling that I can't describe that is just easier to verbalize as a color. Anyway, yours and hers did complement each other. The shapes, however…" He paused, searching for his words. "Well, to say there was no chance would be putting it nicely. They were so completely different from each other. They say that people have soul mates, and I agree; some of the… souls that I see are perfectly fitted together, colors absolute compliments. Others sort of fit, but it isn't perfect. My mother and father are the latter, as are yours. People like that make it work, they compromise." He elaborated. Jean, now considerably less fearful, nodded.

He'd heard about soul mates, and Marco's use of the familiar and common term made him feel better about the entire conversation. After all, Joan had used the term before. Levi had used the term before. The minister had used the term before. If it was such a common idea, it couldn't be a bad thing that Marco could see it. Perhaps he was blessed?

"So it is possible to be completely happy with someone, even if your souls don't quite fit all the way. But there was simply no way for yours to even come close to suiting Mikasa's. That's why I could say with confidence that it wouldn't work out." He added.

Jean scowled. So all that time courting the girl was entirely worthless. There had never been so much as a small hope. He wished he'd known that from the beginning, but then, he'd probably have ignored the information anyway, just as he'd done with Marco's warning.

It was quiet for a while, and it seemed that Marco was giving his companion time to process everything. He actually looked a little apprehensive, but he visibly calmed when Jean pressed closer, stealing a kiss before settling against his side.

"If it had been someone you had a chance with, I wouldn't have said anything. Like… You could probably make it work with Armin Arlert." He listed. Jean frowned deeply. Another boy. That was scary. "You could have been happy with him. Just as my mother is happy with my father. But I've noticed, people that manage to find the other person that goes with them perfectly… Well, they tend to be a lot more vibrant. They know a happiness that no one else can understand. And it's amazing. When you find the person you fit with, you know it, even if you can't see it." Marco sighed, smiling to himself.

"Most people don't even notice at first; All they know is that they're incredibly drawn to the person. They can't seem to keep away. And they can't be kept away from each other. No matter what is between them, they will find a way to get to each other, without fail. It might be gradual, but they will give up everything for each other, their beliefs, their way of life, even their lives. It's truly beautiful." He breathed, looking over at Jean, leaning over to steal Jean's lips in a chaste kiss.

Jean mulled it over, letting his head rest against Marco's shoulder. He'd call the boy insane if he wasn't so specific and knowledgeable on the topic. He really doubted anyone could come up with something like that; It was too fantastical to be imagination.

"So… What are we?" He wondered, thinking about it. "We've got to fit together at least a little, huh?" He mused. Marco hummed, squeezing his fingers.

"I'm not going to tell you." He said, and Jean scoffed indignantly. "I know you well enough to know that if I told you, it would change your attitude, and the way you do things. And I don't want that. I'd honestly rather you just treat our… Relationship the same way that you would treat one with anyone else. There's no need for you to change." He continued, punctuating his argument with a peck on Jean's cheek.

Jean felt heat rising where he'd been kissed, and he squeezed Marco's fingers.

"Alright. If you really don't want to tell me, then I won't bother you about it." He decided, letting his back fall until it hit the grass below, and he tugged on Marco's arm until the other teen obliged him with a giggle, laying down next to him so that the smaller could reproduce their earlier position, head perched easily on Marco's shoulder.

Even after he'd bid Marco farewell and was halfway home, he was still thinking about what Marco could see. He found himself wondering what people's souls were like. He even began to imagine it. Levi was the first he tried. He pictured it a very cool blue color, almost metallic, with sort of a misleadingly complicated shape. He thought it might seem sort of difficult to match at first, but wouldn't actually be that complicated once someone took the time to figure it out.

He remembered that someone _had, _apparently, taken the time to figure it out. Then he tried to stop remembering it, before it sent him into another panic attack. He thought instead about his mother. Well, her and his father. He bet his father's shape was jagged, and that his mother's somehow accommodated it, smoothing out the edges as best it could. His mother's color… He couldn't decide. Something warm, but not overpowering. Maybe a maroon or deep red?

His father, on the other hand… Gold. Jean didn't even have to think about it. He wanted to ask Marco, but he felt he almost didn't need to. Just like Joan's shoe buckles, like his belt buckle, like his ambitions. Gold.

Jean shuddered again, forcing the thoughts from his mind, thinking instead about Marco. Could Marco see his own soul? Jean thought about it. What would his look like? Earthy, maybe brown like soil or green like trees. Or maybe he was blue like warm summer water and skies. There were a lot of possibilities. He sort of wished he could see them, now that he'd learned they existed.

But he knew it wasn't to be. He wasn't like Marco. He was too afraid. But that was alright, because that meant that Marco was brave in a way he couldn't be. After all, they were compatible, weren't they? That meant Marco must make up for his shortcomings.

Or maybe that was only true for soul mates.

But then, who was to say they weren't? After all, hadn't Jean felt drawn to Marco, even before he would admit it? He had had no way to explain his desire to know what was going on behind the Bodt fence. He had no way to explain why he kept coming back, even though he was so obviously afraid of what Marco was. He had no way to explain why he was putting aside his beliefs, which were against practically everything he did, just to spend time with the boy.

Didn't that imply that they _must _be soul mates? Was that why Marco wouldn't tell him? Perhaps he thought that the information would frighten Jean. And, honestly, it did. But it was also a strange sort of comfort to think it. For, if they were truly meant to go together, then surely it couldn't be wrong for them to do just that.

But the bible said different, and that's the part that scared him. Because, if he were to admit that he thought he was right to be with Marco, then that would be admitting that there was a fault with what he'd considered to be the undeniable truth.

If there was one mistake, then there were many.

Considering that small fact was terrifying, rattling. But he couldn't unthink it.

Marco felt right. It seemed like they were always going to end up like this, regardless of what decision they made. Even if Jean hadn't come back when he did, even if he'd forced himself away, had gone to church every day and hung on to every single word, even if he'd succeeded his father as the tax collector, or if he'd become a journalist… Someday, he would come back. He might be older, more stubborn, less afraid, more afraid… But he'd be the same. He felt Marco was meant for him, just as he was meant for Marco. It was the first time he'd really thought of it in lingual terms, but he'd had the feeling for a long time.

He had grown to love Marco. And he knew, without verbal confirmation, that Marco loved him as well. And Jean doubted that could ever be different.

It terrified him. He was meant for Marco. Marco was meant for him. It was preordained, which had to mean it was divine.

It was a glaring contradiction to what he had always believed to be true. It was a fault. And with that mistake he had to question what else was wrong. What else had been transcribed improperly? How much of what he'd been taught was true?

So wrapped up in his alarming revelations was he that he didn't even hear Joan or his mother as they talked over dinner. Not a single word was comprehended. Not even one threatening word out of Joan's mouth made it into his mind.

It was an oblivious night he came to regret more than most in his life.

A/N: I am a busy bee here lately, and I do want to warn you that it might be a while before you get another update, unfortunately. I have to somehow finish a costume by the fifth (heaven help me) save and pack for Torcon next weekend, go to school, work, and all the other things those entail. Which basically means I have a whole lot on my plate.

Still, I'm doing my best to keep up. I just want you guys to know that the next chapter likely won't come out in just a few days like they have been. Think more like a week or so. Sorry in advance!

In other news, FANART~! Oooh yeah! It has begun, and I'm super excited! Thanks to Illien-Chan on Devi, and aamukaste on tumblr! As I'm sure we're all aware at this point, FF won't let me post links. If you want to see them, you can check out Illien's devi, the fanart is titled "Hold ya Hand." Aamukaste's piece is tagged "fic where wildflowers grow" and it's the only thing in that tag. Thanks to both of you, you lit up my days when I saw your work. 3

On that note, anything related to this story can be tagged "fic wwfg" on tumblr. I check it regularly and stuff, and get more excited than I probably ought to on the rare occasion that something new appears in there. I seriously appreciate the support thus far~!

Alright, I need to get to work on another of my stories. I may or may not have let swimmer boys take over my life again. *sigh* Till next time, I'd like to thank you for following along, taking the time to read, and to leave me such fantastic feedback. You guys mean the world to me, so keep that feedback coming. It keeps me going!

I must away. Farewell dear ones.

KuroRiya  
九六りや


	11. Cypress

Jean woke up later than he usually did. That was the first thing that gave him a clue. The sun was too bright against his eyes, already yellow instead of the normal grey of early morning, which he had grown accustomed to seeing every day working with Levi. He had to squint against it, and he groggily wondered why on earth his mother hadn't woken him up when he'd slept through breakfast.

He had to go through his normal routine quickly, since he was running late. Who knew what Levi would do if he didn't make it in till noon! He regretted that he wouldn't get to see Marco until after working, but he did have to prioritize, as unfortunate as it was.

Once he was dressed and his hair had been tamed to some semblance of normalcy, he headed down the stairs. Sure enough, his mother was there, awake, sitting at the table. He'd been prepared to demand an explanation, but she looked… Hollow. Like she wasn't really there. He felt like she had retreated into her own mind, and wondered what could have possibly caused that.

His suspicion was confirmed when she didn't respond, though he called her a few times. He finally gave in, shaking her shoulder gently, and her eyes suddenly snapped up to his face, a bit of sadness mixing in with the surprise and the… Fear? Why fear? Sure, if he was his father, that could be acceptable. But she'd never looked at _him _like that.

"Mother?" He called softly. "Why didn't you get me up?" He wondered, keeping his hand on her shoulder, afraid that if he let go she'd disappear inside herself again. "I'm late for work." He added.

Her shoulder stiffened, and her eyes went wide.

"I-I think you ought to stay in today, Jean." She suggested, voice quiet but urgent. It was a strange thing for her to say. Usually she was the one scolding him for trying to get out of work, not the other way around. Why the shift?

"Um… I can't just take a day off whenever I want to." Jean pointed out. "Levi would have my head…"

She winced, biting her lip so hard it started to go white. What was wrong? Why wouldn't she just tell him what was on her mind?

"Jean, please." She begged, reaching out and holding one of his hands tightly between hers.

He took a moment to think over what she was asking, and why. She looked distraught, and was acting as if someone was in danger. As if Jean was in danger. But why? Had he done something wrong? Well… He could think of a lot of things he'd done recently that would be considered wrong by almost anyone who saw, but he was confident he hadn't been seen. Was he wrong in so thinking?

But even if he had been… Well, he would be less afraid for himself, and more afraid for… Marco.

He could swear he felt his heart caving in on itself. His whole body went cold, even in the sticky summer heat that loomed in the house. He couldn't focus on anything anymore, not even his mother's concerned face. Her terrified face.

"…Where is father?" He asked. She only shook her head, not meeting his eyes, retreating back into her mind as if that might protect her from the horror overtaking her son's face.

Without another word, he bolted from the room, ignoring her cries of protest, and ran down the familiar path towards the main street.

What would he do if Marco was there? What could he do? Even if Marco wasn't dead, would he be able to save him? What would be the point? It would only condemn the both of them. But he couldn't very well let them hurt Marco. No. He'd only just admitted to loving him, he couldn't lose him. He hadn't loved anything before then, and now that he knew the feeling, he couldn't imagine life without it.

He barely registered that he'd passed a man. But when he did, he paused, turning to watch him. He was walking, but too fast for it to be a stroll. And he was headed out of town. Jean watched his retreating figure, mind curious about his hast and disheveled blonde hair and burning familiarity, but he didn't have time to dwell, and he resumed his run, urging himself to go even faster.

It felt like he couldn't breathe. The air was so thick, so wet, and his lungs were fighting him with every breath to squeeze out what little oxygen they could. It didn't matter though. His legs couldn't be convinced to stop even if he'd tried. No matter how they burned, they wouldn't falter till he reached his destination.

The tree was always the first thing his eyes saw when he approached town. Maybe it was just a fearful habit, maybe the tree was just noticeable. It was sort of a relief to see it every day, for it was empty, innocently so. As if it was just a normal tree.

But that day, it was anything but a relief.

Even from afar, he could see it. There was someone hanging from it. He couldn't tell who, but his heart screamed the only name that mattered. He already wanted to collapse, to cry, and beg for death himself, but his last shred of reason insisted that he get close enough to see. To confirm.

Somehow he pressed forward, only collapsing when he was truly in front of the tree. He couldn't bring himself to look for a long, breathless moment. He almost wished he never had to look. But he needed to know.

His breath hitched when he finally did look up, heart seeming to stop its beating in his chest for a drawn out moment. When his breath finally came, it was shaky. Both with horror, but also relief.

It was Levi. Not Marco. And Jean knew it was deplorable of him to be relieved to see his mentor dangling, lifeless. But all he could think was that, thank God, it wasn't Marco.

Once his mind cleared a bit from his frantic panic, he nearly vomited. It was lucky he hadn't eaten much the night before. There was a small crowd gathered, some cheering and congratulating each other, others looking on with pity or discomfort. No one paid Jean much mind.

Levi was nearly unrecognizable. His height was what made his identity obvious, but otherwise it might have been hard. One of his eyes was open, the other shut and bloody, a cut and swelling likely making it impossible to open. His nose was obviously broken, and the blood only flowed down to join more from his lips, soaking into the front of what had once been a clean, crisp white shirt.

Jean couldn't count the broken bones, and couldn't bring himself to look long enough to try. All he could do was hold himself and try not to think about it. He wished he hadn't come. He should have listened to his mother. But he couldn't have just left it without making sure Marco was alright.

But was Marco really alright? Probably right now, seeing as the entire town was gathered. But if they would do this to Levi, a respected member of their community, then what hope was there that they wouldn't do the exact same to the hated Pagan boy? It didn't matter that he was young, that he was harmless, that he wasn't doing any wrong. If they found out what he and Jean did alone in the meadow, they'd do the same, if not worse, to the both of them.

They weren't safe, and Jean couldn't fool himself into thinking so anymore.

So lost in his thoughts and terrors was he that he didn't notice his father approaching. He didn't register the man's presence, in fact, until he'd rested a hand on Jean's shoulder, knuckles bruised and usually spotless shirt sleeves splattered with angry red stains.

He leaned in close, to make sure Jean heard him. He smelled falsely of oranges and vanilla, a perfume he'd bought a year or so ago. Jean hated the smell.

"A Sodomite." He explained, as if that justified what he'd done, what they'd all done.

Jean vomited.

It wasn't until after Joan had gone to bed, and that Jean had already managed to escape his own home, that he realized who the man from earlier was. The one that was leaving town. It was the man that he'd seen with Levi. He'd never even learned his identity, but he suddenly understood, knew how he must have felt. And he knew the man must have been strong to be able to run away. He was strong to keep going, even without Levi.

Even though Jean was afraid, he couldn't stop himself from walking towards the Bodt house. Even though it wasn't Marco in that tree, he still needed to see him, to be sure that he was alright, that he was alive. It didn't matter that he was scared, or that he could get caught, or even that it was the middle of the night.

When he passed by town, as much as he wished he could have avoided doing so, he was thankful to see that someone had been kind enough to let Levi's body down. Jean wondered where it was. Had they burned it? Tossed it into the river? Simply abandoned it outside of town for the scavengers to pick at until Levi was nothing but unidentifiable bones?

He really hoped someone had taken pity and at least buried him. Even burning the body would be better than leaving it up to nature, he thought.

It sort of dawned on him then that he had a lot to think about, in regards to his employer. Beyond the grief he felt for the man, which was more than he actually expected, seeing as he never thought himself too overly fond of him, he had to think about his job too.

Levi had been the town's news reporter. Without him, there wasn't a weekly paper. Would the town go without one, or would a new person take over the position? Would Jean? Could he? He wasn't sure if he was qualified, but realized he was probably more so than anyone else in town.

But, after seeing what had happened to Levi, he was more afraid of his father than ever. Before, the hanging tree had served as an idle threat. Now its legacy was alive again. Jean had seen for himself. He could be next, if he wasn't careful. Marco could be next.

Joan thought journalism was a waste of time. It was a miracle that Jean had convinced him to allow him the chance to apprentice. And now, what with his master gone, what argument could he really make in his own favor? How could he convince his father to let him take up a sodomite's trade?

He had to dispel the thoughts, for he was at the familiar fence, presently staring into the dark yard. He could just make out the sheep, penned up for the night, some bleating softly even at the witching hour.

Now that he was standing there, looking at the house, which was dark save for a few candles flickering near the end of their lives in an occasional window, he felt foolish. The chances were that Marco was sleeping. Even if he wasn't, the rest of his family most likely was, and he had no way to know which room was Marco's. If he really wanted to see the boy, he'd have to knock on the front door, disturbing someone.

He bit his lip. He wanted to see Marco. Needed to see him. But he didn't want to bother his family.

His heart stuttered when he heard a sound, eyes shooting up in that direction. But he quickly calmed when he realized what it was. With impeccable timing, Marco had opened one of the windows on the upper floor, his head poking out. He didn't call out, but he waved at Jean, and then Jean saw his shadow walking past several of the windows.

In a few minutes, he emerged from the house, closing the door quietly behind him. Jean met him halfway after stepping over the fence, glad for the cover of darkness as he all but collided with the boy, clinging too tight for comfort as Marco did all he could to keep them steady.

Jean didn't even realize he was crying until Marco had pulled him to the other side of the house and was wiping the tears away with his thumbs. But then it was over for Jean. And this time, Marco didn't have to ask what was wrong. He himself didn't cry, but he trembled just a little as he held Jean against his side.

The moon was high when Jean finally calmed down. And still, they were quiet for a long time.

"What… What are we going to do?" Jean managed, looking up at Marco.

It was the first time he'd seen such nervousness on the other boy's face.

"There's not really much we can do. I assume that no one knows about us, seeing as I didn't wake up to a mob this morning. But we… We need to be a lot more careful." He admitted. Jean shuddered.

"What if they catch us?" He quaked, eyes darting around as if he might have summoned someone with words alone.

Marco frowned, searching out Jean's fingers and squeezing them.

"Well, that's up to you, Jean. If they catch us, I don't have any doubt that I'll end up like Levi. You might not get it as badly, but you won't be the same." He warned. Jean swallowed the bitter saliva gathered in his mouth. His throat still felt dry.

"If you…" Marco paused, taking a deep breath. "I understand that this changes things. And I will understand if you don't want to do this." He promised.

Jean had to wonder what exactly _this _was, but he couldn't bring himself to question it aloud.

"It's a lot more dangerous and a lot more real now. I couldn't blame you for being scared. I'm scared." He admitted. That shook Jean a little more than it should have. Marco never said things like that. Marco was so strong, he understood things in a way Jean couldn't. He was calm. Never scared.

They fell into silence, and Jean thought about it all for a long while.

"Do you want to stop?" He finally asked, looking up at the darker boy. Marco bit his lip, looking up at the stars, as if he was asking them for guidance. He was quiet for so long, Jean almost thought his question would go unanswered, but then Marco inhaled.

"I love you, Jean." Was his reply.

All at once, the night seemed so loud. Frogs and crickets shrieked, shrill and echoing. The sheep seemed to join in on the impromptu concert, and the dissonance was strangely comforting.

Jean knew the words should have turned him away. They should have been the thing that assured that he'd never come back to this place, back to this boy. He almost believed that Marco had said them in the hopes that they'd send him running.

But instead, it made him resolute.

"I'm not leaving." He replied, the quiver gone from his voice as he pulled Marco closer, pressing their lips together almost harshly. He was desperate for it now, to feel this precious person, alive and warm. And Marco didn't deny him it, motion easy and practiced as he curled his arms around the other, pulling till their chests were flush and they could feel their hearts pounding at slightly different paces.

Jean could have fallen asleep there, against Marco. But he knew better. That would be the most dangerous thing he could do. So, after a few tired and still terrified kisses, Jean left, watching until Marco was safe inside his house again before he began the walk to his own.

He kept his footsteps quiet, even before he got to his home, and even more so when he did. Not even a single floorboard creaked under him. He didn't so much as breathe until he was in his room, in his bed. He heard Joan snore, as he always did when he was deeply asleep.

He felt like vomiting again.

A/N: Sorry for the wait, my readers. I spent pretty much a week in Toronto, and that was quite the experience. My roommate and I went for a Supernatural convention, which was fun. But I managed to get incredibly sick the second day of the trip, and it was terrible by the third day. I started feeling better on the fourth day, but man, I thought I was dying for a minute there, and yet I still forced myself to walk to that convention every day.

Then our connection flight from Chicago got cancelled, and we wound up having to spend the night at the airport. One night of cramming ourselves into a tiny crevice behind one of the boarding desks and a lot of awkward spooning for warmth later, I am home and feeling better, though I do have a touch of post-con depression and a lot of Spanish to catch up on.

Not much else has happened, otherwise. EXCEPT for this: Where were you guys last chapter? I only got, like, one comment! Was the chapter that bad? You guys seriously have me worried! If I did something wrong, please tell me, because I've seriously been torn up about this ever since the last chapter came out. Feedback is hella important, especially if you spoil me early on with a bunch. Now I'm used to it, and not getting feedback is horrible for me. Call me selfish if you must, but please, talk to me.

I have started a Free! Fic and I shall not be stopped. I got sudden inspiration, and here I am. I'll post that someday, if anyone is interested in reading it. But for now, I need to do some work on TMTTR. Just remember, anything related to this story can be tagged fic wwfg on tumblr. I literally monitor that tag like a hawk.

And don't forget the fanart I linked in the last chapter! Check it out, give the artists some love! Artists love love! And I love artists. And they love me for loving them. And I love them for loving me for loving them, and we all love each other. And that's because none of us got enough love in our childhoods. And that's art, kid.

Alright, I need to stop. I've work to do. Till next time, my lovelies. Thanks, as always, for the continued support!

KuroRiya  
九六りや


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